


When to Let Go

by KendylGirl



Series: When to Let Go [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Implied Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, References to Torture, Reverse Reichenbach, Sacrifice, Series 1 and 2 Adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KendylGirl/pseuds/KendylGirl
Summary: What if it were John who had to die to thwart Moriarty's plans?John's supposed death shatters Sherlock, and when he returns, it will challenge the pair to forge a path of forgiveness, to peace, and to find a way back to each other.





	1. Bonded

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins with a reimagining that weaves in and out of the first two Sherlock series; thus, some recognizable dialogue from the show is utilized. I am in no way claiming their dialogue snippets as my own!  
> My ultimate objective here is to present two men who were destined to be the center of the other's world and to show the lengths each will go to for the other; Sherlock and John deserve the depth of love that the television series seemed insistent upon denying them. I may make many others, but I will not make that mistake.

_Could this really my life now?_

John stands nestled between two police cruisers, the revolving blue lights settling an unearthly glow around the tight scene outside the stone building.His left hand still hums from the vibration of the gunshot.He feels twitchy, restless.It’s not nerves, though.He has to chew at the inside of his cheek to keep a broad grin from overtaking his face.He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, glancing around at the busy officers talking in huddles, interviewing a bystander who points aloft, jabbing at the air for emphasis.Radios crackle and buzz.

John peeks over the roof of the cruiser toward the white rectangle of light coming from the back of the ambulance, the one that the inspector ( _Lestrade, wasn’t it?_ ) is hunched over, hands in the pockets of his trench.He seems to be listening for a while, then leans back, head cocked to the side.It looks like he sighs before extracting a notepad from his pocket and nodding.

A tall figure rises next to him, shoulders wrapped in one of the ambulance's ridiculous orange blankets.John catches the profile, so like an idealized museum piece of alabaster crowned by an unruly mass of dark curls. _Sherlock_.He’s speaking rapidly to the inspector,and as he does so, he turns and locks eyes with John. 

Abruptly, Sherlock stops talking.John stops breathing.They stare at each other, suspended.For just a few seconds, the rest of the world falls away.Had there even been anyone else there?Before Mike had dragged him back to the Barts lab a few days prior, John had been up to his eyes in Reality.At night, he swam in dust and sand, distant stutters of machine gun fire and up-close screams dying men; when he awoke, there was nothing—an empty, silent, beige monotony that sucked John’s soul dry.There had been no room anywhere for an idiot’s Romanticism and dreams of translucent blue eyes that shift to green under the dying red light of the setting sun.

When John sees—no, _feels_ —Sherlock’s pink lips quirk up on one side, the grin he’s suppressed bubbles up, so he bites his bottom lip, drawing a flicker from those hypnotic eyes.And then they’re moving toward one another, Sherlock waving a hand at the inspector and balling up the orange blanket to toss into a vehicle’s open window, John banging his knee as he rounds the bumper of the car.He doesn’t even notice.

They fall into step easily, giggling into the other’s shoulder about the bloody awful cabbie, trying to look serious, and the harder they try, the more spectacularly they fail. _Dear God, rein it in, Watson_.Chinese?Perfect.Bloody _brilliant._ John is suddenly famished, so he leaps the curb and quickens his pace, grabbing Sherlock’s sleeve and pulling him down the sidewalk, despite the other man’s longer strides.

He whips his arm in the air, and a cab swishes up next to them.As they slide into the seat, John glances down at his hand still gripping the edge of the dark wool coat, then up at Sherlock’s face, flushed and alight with a fire of something new. 

He makes a choice:he doesn’t let go.

* * *

 

Sherlock pulls the sheet tighter around him.Should a palace really be this drafty?Surely the elderly couple who lives here requires a more tropical climate.What are their names again?It matters not—merely another set of bloated, irrelevant figureheads in a long line of them.One client is no better than another, as long as the problems they face are intriguing enough.

John appears suddenly in the doorway, eyes wide.He holds his hands out to the side in an unspoken query.Sherlock can merely shrug and roll his eyes.

John takes the seat next to him on the divan, neck craning around in semi wonderment, ending with his face peering over Sherlock empty lap.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“No.”

“Ok.” As if Sherlock’s toga and veritable nudity make perfect sense, here of all places.Wonderful, unflappable John.

When their eyes meet, neither can contain the giggles, which only worsens when Mycroft, the de facto queen-for-a-day, enters scowling.Mycroft’s condescension is palpable, reaching its apex when in front of an audience.The equerry looks just the sort with whom Mycroft would associate:smooth, polished, and insufferably arrogant.An errand boy in a thousand-pound suit.

“Let me apologize for the state of my little brother,” Mycroft intones in his most suffering of drawls. 

Sherlock pulls himself to his full height, face set in what would be an intimidating glower, were it not for the bed sheet.Perhaps his plan to block Mycroft’s demands at all costs might have its drawbacks after all.He needs his proper armor of silk and wool to slough off and slam shut the presumptions of yet another terribly average individual who believes himself superior to all, solely due to his ascetic. 

Harry looks Sherlock up and down.“Full time occupation, I imagine.”

Sherlock is near to blushing, but he hears a noise—a low growl—next to him.John has gone stiff, his movements mechanical and abrupt.The other men don’t seem alarmed, apparently thinking he is adopting a respectful stance as Harry cites John’s military pedigree.But Sherlock knows better:John is furious.The shorter man’s smile is a dangerous blade, and he clenches Harry’s offered hand like a vice, which must have been surprisingly painful.The hasty afterthought of a compliment to John’s blog is shunned by the author, who makes sure to emphasize, “Your _employer_.Ah.”Poor Harry, a sad working stiff, just like the rest of us.

John turns his head back to Sherlock, gives him a small nod and a wry grin. _I’ve got you_ , telegraphed straight to Sherlock’s core.Sherlock’s chest expands suddenly.He wants to howl, to pick John up on his shoulders and carry him around the room like he’s just single-handedly won the World Cup.He’s never had this before—someone who sticks up for him, who steps in front of the arrows flung in Sherlock’s direction, large or small.He’s never had anyone value him in quite that way.If only he’d known John Watson when he was twelve years old, his sentencing to three different boarding schools in five years could very well have been avoided.

He’s never had a true friend.A partner. 

Finally, he accepts the bundle of his clothes as a distraction, a way to step away momentarily and regroup, reassess.Sherlock’s mind races, leaving him slightly dizzy.This is still so new to him.John has once again left him unbalanced. _This is John_ , he realizes stupidly.This is John, who told off the postman because he tossed Sherlock’s package on the stoop and shattered the Erlenmeyer flasks within.This is John, who pinned Anderson to the wall with one well-placed finger for simply laughing the last time Sally referred to Sherlock as a freak; Sally, though, he didn’t even have to touch—she’d withered and retreated under the daggers of John’s eyes.This is John, who, when strapped to a bomb and sighted by snipers, flung himself on Moriarty and begged Sherlock to run, to save himself.

_Could it really be the two of us, John?The two of us against the rest of the world?_

Mycroft drones the details of his case, handing over a stack of photographs.Banter, deflection.They want Sherlock’s help, but they don’t want to give him enough to reasonably provide it.John sits next to him, mildly sipping his tea and listening politely, until his next strike:“You can’t tell us anything.”He radiates sardonic derision, and Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek bloody to keep from laughing aloud once again.If there’s anything that smug men of power hate, it is the implication that they are ignorant or impotent. _Well-played, John_. 

When they slide into the cab, John is buoyant.He nudges Sherlock with his knee.“Ok, the smoking—how did you know?”

Sherlock schools his features to remain serious.“The evidence was right under your nose, John, as ever you see but do not observe.”

John’s eyes narrow.“Observe what?”

“The ashtray.”Sherlock flips the crystal dish and tucks it in his coat once more.John dissolves into giggles again, pressing his leg against him and squeezing his knee with his right hand.Sherlock marinates in the warm satisfaction of John’s attentions, turning his face to the window to try to conceal his own broad smile.

* * *

 

“Punch me in the face.”

John’s forehead crinkles.“Punch you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake…”He does the only thing he can think of and aims his fist somewhere above John’s ear.

Bingo.

John gives him a smart blow to the side of his face. _Perfect!_ “Thank you, that was…”

He hasn’t anticipated the tackle. 

They fall in a heap onto the cobblestones and smash into a nearby bin.John locks his knees around Sherlock’s hips and stares down into his face, cheeks flushed and eyes alight.Sherlock forgets the sharp pain in his spine in favor of watching the tip of pink tongue that is lodged in the corner of John’s mouth.It’s hypnotic.He’s a sudden urge to replace it with his own, to taste the toothpaste and tea and apple tart beyond the soft lips. 

_Wait, what?_

Sherlock uses his long legs as leverage to pry himself loose and stagger to his feet, but John leaps on his back, nearly sending the pair of them headlong into a wall.John’s mouth hovers just over his ear, panting.His compact body drapes over Sherlock’s back, the grip of his arms tightening around the column of his neck.He feels the strong network of muscles work even through the barrier of their clothing, breathes in the soft scent of John’s shampoo.His blood surges as a soft groan trickles from John’s throat under the exertion

Oh.

Oh no. 

He definitely hasn’t anticipated this.Arousal.Desire.Is that truly what he’s feeling?Maybe not.Maybe he’s just caught up in the moment.Yes, that’s most certainly it.

_Liar._

Stop it.Not good.

Sherlock gasps, doubled over.“Ok, I think we’re done now, John!”

John wriggles against him.“You ought to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier.I killed people.”

“You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days.”

“I don’t believe you!”Sherlock grasps John’s forearm and yanks on it more

John presses his mouth into the shell of his ear for a moment.“You should.”His voice is guttural, raspy.“I _do_ know how to be bad.”He releases his grip and slides slowly to the ground, and as he does so, he deliberately pushes off with his hips against Sherlock’s rounded backside.And he feels it then, an unmistakable hardness that sends Sherlock’s mind reeling. 

He gulps for air and whips around to find John straightening his jacket, wiping his hands lightly down the arms and tugging at the bottom.John gazes serenely into Sherlock’s eyes, mouth ghosting to a subtle grin.

Sherlock’s pulse feels unsteady, legs rickety.He swallows, breathing audibly through his nose. 

John tilts his head.“You think you’re ready for this?” 

Sherlock nods, head heavy and off-center.Somewhere in a corner of his mind, he’s unsure if he’s actually answered an altogether different question.

John winks and saunters down the alley.

He follows without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock crosses his legs and leans back on the smooth white leather of Irene Adler’s sofa, frustrated.Thoroughly annoyed, in fact.The Work is paramount right now; his reputation could very well be on the line, given the status of the unseen client for whom he is working.With effort, he watchesher as she flounces into the matching chair and folds her arms just so, preening over what she assumes is his unbalance at her nudity.

_She_ would _think that, wouldn’t she.How dull._

But his powers of deduction have momentarily deserted him.Sherlock squints and purses his lips, hoping by a force of will to refocus his attentions away from the lingering feel of soft blonde hair against his cheek, the warm breath against his neck.

At that moment, John shuffles in, playing his part with the little bowl of water and clean cloth.He’s brought up short by the bizarre scene before him, but his surprise instantly melts into amusement.Sherlock catches the droll undertone to his query, “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

Sherlock spares her another few seconds, but he cannot resist turning back to John.He’s wearing that shirt again, the one from the day before yesterday, and he hasn’t washed it, so it smells even more of his comforting scent.He has on his date shoes, brown leather and white soles, though Sherlock is certain he’s not got plans for the night.Curious.And his lips, pursed in a cherry red, slightly chapped after soothing the ache of breaking in a new toothbrush, one that Sherlock used as well rather than go through the hassle of digging out a new one for himself.John wouldn’t mind, would he?Of course not.

He knows he's stared too long when John knits his eyebrows together pointedly, throwing Sherlock back into Irene’s sphere, just a moment too late.She seems to have noticed something in those swift, unguarded moments because she leans forward and croons, “Somebody loves you.Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to the floor, but John seems unimpressed.He barks a mocking laugh and tells her to put something on.He holds up the item in his hand.“Napkin?”

Irene seems to take this as a challenge, more so than the pitiful display Sherlock’s shown so far.She rises and strides directly toward John, as if to intimidate him, waits for him to flinch.But John Watson does not flinch at danger.He squares his shoulders and stares her down, smirking. 

An odd feeling rises in Sherlock’s chest, like a large bubble of air; he doesn’t immediately identify it as panic, but he needs to get something—ANYTHING—between John and this woman before she takes another step, another breath, flaunting her ridiculous nakedness right under John’s nose.That is positively unacceptable.He gets up and blocks her path, tosses his coat at her, and moves to the other side of the room, like shifting figures on a chess board.He’s let Adler have her fun; it is time to get what they came for.

But she takes his seat on the sofa and John slides down next to her.The hiker and the backfire.Trapped pawn.

“And you like policemen?”

She leans toward him conspiratorially.“I like detective stories, and detectives.Brainy is the new sexy.”

John’s eyes soften.They linger just a few seconds too long on Adler’s face.The small smile he gives is genuine, flirtatious.It makes Sherlock’s stomach flip and sends his unhinged mouth into a humiliating stutter, something he’s not done since he was teenager.He starts to pace, to blither on about the hiker and the car, “positioning…death blow…all you need to know.”He is uncertain if actual sentences have emerged or not.He doesn’t really care.

What matters:Sherlock’s gambit tricks Irene into revealing the location of her photographs, and before John leaves the room, his eyes swim with open admiration for him. 

_Brainy is the new sexy._ He’s counting on it.

Sherlock shoots Adler a triumphant look:checkmate.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock detaches the rusted lock from the power station’s eastern entrance, holding the door up in its hinges to prevent the inevitable shriek as the neglected metal turns against itself.He steps inside, pirouetting on tiptoes to avoid debris scattered through the narrow hallway, then scales a scaffolding and slips into an access passage behind the massive wall of antiquated monitoring equipment. 

The murmur of John’s voice echoes around him.“But he’s Sherlock.He does all that any—“

The click of Irene’s heels cuts him off.Sherlock cannot see his face through the narrow gap in the machines but he imagines the blank look of shock on his face, though part of him had wondered if John would work out the deception for himself.Sherlock had played along with Adler’s plan to drop out of sight peacefully by playing dead, as it would buy _him_ more time to unravel her multilayered scheme.Sherlock needed her to think him an ally (or at least not an enemy) and a malleable one at that.It was his first and best way to get one step closer to Jim Moriarty.

“Tell him you're alive.”

“He’ll come after me.”

“I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly. _Me_.John doesn’t ask her how or why she’s standing there.That doesn’t matter to him. _His first thought is to protect me_.Extraordinary. 

He jumps at a sudden rise in volume.“What do you _normally_ say?You’ve texted him a lot!”There’s an edge to John’s voice that Sherlock can’t quite identify, a cutting sarcasm that is more than just irritation or exasperation.Confusion?Suspicion?Not likely.Sadness?Fear?Impossible.

“You jealous?”Irene’s lackadaisical tone cuts through.

“We’re not a couple.”Wait.The response is too slow, too lacking in conviction, too resigned.What does that mean?

“Yes, you are.”Flat, a statement of fact.

Sherlock crouches and cocks his head when there is a rustling noise in the lit hallway behind him.After several tense seconds, it proves to be nothing more than a brindled rat.He rolls his eyes, catching the tail end of John’s murmur,“…not actually gay.”His voice is rounded, soft, absent of its usual outrage whenever this topic arises.What is happening here?

“Well, I am.Look at us both.”

Sherlock freezes.He awaits John’s reply to correct her, one that will no doubt drip with disdain, an assault on her presumptions, the invasion of his privacy. 

Silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock flicks at the rounded wooden edge of the chair with his fingertips.The evening he’d envisioned has been highjacked, and the bottle of cabernet that John had picked out stands neglected on the kitchen counter.

“So, who’s after you?”

Irene turns from her perch in his armchair.“People who want to kill me.”

Sherlock is not in the mood for her games.“Who’s that?” _Why must I even ask?_

“Killers.”

John must feel his aggravation mounting, so he steps in: “It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.”

Adler looks far too pleased with herself, too cheshire cat for her assumed role of scared fugitive.Something is off here, but Sherlock is uncertain quite what that might be.She’s accustomed to trouble, true, but clearly she’s out of her depth on this one.There ought to be at least a glimmer of genuine anxiety, but thus far, he’s not gleaned it. 

He has five current theories.

“Where’s my camera phone?”

Four theories.

“Not here.We’re not stupid.”John plunks down his mug.He’s piqued by her smug look as well, seems intent to wipe it clean.

Sherlock keeps his features neutral as he invents a plausible diversion, a safety deposit box, scrutinizing her micro-expressions for tells.John joins in, adding his twisty tale of how the phone might be retrieved in secret.She doesn’t flinch.Nothing leaks from her armor.

New tactic.

He pulls a phone from his pocket, twirls it around. _Better._ She rises, looks hungry.Arms cross. _Excellent_.

“I make my way in the world.I misbehave.”She looks directly at him.“I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

An eerie feeling slithers down the back of Sherlock’s neck.He senses he’s just slipped to a disadvantage.But why?There is a thin line he’s dancing here, the boundary between allowing someone to think she’s using you and actually getting used.Sherlock’s footing is anything but secure, the ground full of landmines.

Three theories.

“You’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection.Do you know what it is?”

“Yes.But I don’t understand it.”

“I assumed.Show me.”

He forfeits the phone with minimal resistance, then holds his breath.She watches his face while tapping in her passcode.The eerie feeling remains.Even her disappointment is just two ticks to the left of where it should be.

He leaps from his chair and snatches the duplicate phone, turning to catch John’s face, the huff of admiration, but when the real phone fails to open, he also catches John’s furrowed brow.Sherlock refuses to let that stand. 

New tactic: _What do women like?_ Ah, yes.Compliments.“Oh, you’re rather good.”

“You’re not so bad,” she smirks.

“Hamish!”

Sherlock pivots toward John.Is that supposed to help?What is he doing?

“John Hamish Watson, just…if you’re looking for baby names.”He shakes his head and turns away toward his computer, annoyance plain in the stiff set of his shoulders. 

_Bloody hell_.

Irene clicks a few buttons and hands him the phone with the email image.He takes it and sits opposite John at their shared desk.“What can you do, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock sees John raise his mug to his mouth, then closes his eyes, the letters and numbers in the picture falling into alignment.In retrospect, the hour he spent carefully selecting a seat for his flight to Belarus did not go wasted.By the time he opens his eyes and watches John’s mug hit the desk, he’s sorted it.He reads from the phone, detailing the miraculous flight to Baltimore.“Apparently it’s going to save the world; I’m not sure how that can be true, but give me a moment—I’ve only been on the case for eight seconds.”

Then his eyes pop up and pin John in his seat.But Sherlock finds it is he who is pinned, stabbed through the heart by the raw, open-mouthed stare that greets him.It is something more intense than the typical esteem that John conveys for his deductions.It swarms around him, the connection palpable.Soft tentacles reach between them, wrap around their bodies, threaten to pull them together past a blissful point of no return.

_Oh._

Too much.No time.

Sherlock cuts the tie, pulls back, lets go. 

A launch into a tedious explanation, a resetting of fuses.

Bond Air. 

The Work.


	2. The Most Dangerous Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty stands trial and is exonerated. Mycroft has a plan to save Sherlock from his wrath, one that hinges on John Watson.

“I’ll get it, shall I?”

In the kitchen, Sherlock clicks away at the microscope’s dials as his forgotten phone buzzes in the sitting room.Typical.John sighs and puts his newspaper aside. 

John’s faint amusement evaporates when he sees the screen.He carries it to the kitchen at arm’s length as if it were covered in fleas.

“Sherlock…”

“Not now!”

“He’s back.”

The dark head snaps up from the eyecups, and he snatches at his phone.

_Come and play.Tower Hill.Jim Moriarty x_

Dread clenches John’s stomach, but a faint smile plays at Sherlock’s lips.It’s as if the detective’s been wishing for it, hoping that the maniac would resurface.And now he has.

Game on.

* * *

 

 

The trial is a circus, and they haven’t even made it past their own front door.Flash bulbs, shouting, a cloud of reporters desperate for any remark from the famous ace the prosecution intends to serve up.John puts himself between Sherlock and the mob, pushing stiff armed toward the waiting police car.

As they swoop away from the curb, a tense silence settles in.John peeks at Sherlock’s profile; to a casual observer, he seems utterly calm and focused, but John notes the subtle bulge of a clenched jaw and the odd angle made from his long neck when his back does not actually touch the seat behind it.

Sherlock Holmes is nervous. _Very_ nervous.

John turns to the window until he’s sure his voice will radiate nothing but assurance.

“Now, remember—“

“Yes.”

Breathe.

“Remember—“

“Yesss.”

Faster, then:

“Remember what they told you: don’t try to be clever—“

“No.”

“—and please just keep it simple and brief.”

“I’m confident the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent.”

“Intelligent?Fine.Let’s give ‘smart ass’ a wide berth.”

There are about two seconds when John actually believes he’s reached him.

“I’ll just be myself.”

Christ!

“Are you _listening_ to me?”

The patrolman in the front seat glances over his shoulder, then mutters to his partner behind the wheel.“Sounds like my parents.”

 

* * *

 

 

John leans against the counter, arms crossed, gnawing the inside of his cheek.Sherlock blithely signs his release forms from the lock-up desk sergeant.

“What did I say?I said don’t get clever.”

An unspoken eyeroll.“I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap.”He scoops up his bag of personals and strides down the hall.“Well?” 

John has to skip a few steps to catch up.“Well what?”

“You were there for the whole thing.”

“Like you said it would be:sat on his backside, never even stirred.”

“Moriarty’s not mounting any defense.”

Sherlock’s words settle like rocks in John’s gut.He cannot escape the sensation that they are watching the slow retreat of the sea, just before a tsunami slams ashore and obliterates everything in its path. 

That feeling only intensifies the next day in court when the consulting criminal’s attorney declares his case at rest before it could even begin.Moriarty swivels deliberately at the waist and latches onto John up in the gallery.John stares, eyes darkening around the feigned ‘uh-oh’ grimace on the bastard’s face.What the hell is he implying, anyway?Clearly he’s not worried about the outcome for himself. _He chose to be there_ , Sherlock had said. _This is part of his scheme_. 

Then, Jim’s expression shifts to a reptilian smile, and a cold realization gathers around John’s heart.It’s Sherlock.Somehow, all of this is a prelude to this monster’s plans for Sherlock.

And the jury has just set him free.

 

* * *

 

 

John grips the phone tighter to his ear.  “Sherlock, are you listening?  He’s out.  You know he’ll be coming after you.  Sher—“ 

The line goes dead.

Shit.

He races to the intersection, craning his neck for a cab, right arm in the air, left working the screen of his mobile to get Sherlock back on the line.When a car stops, he reaches automatically for the door handle.

Then he realizes it is a sleek, black Jaguar.

Oh, fuck. _Not now_.

His mobile rings.

“Do get in, Dr. Watson.We have some important business to discuss.”

“Mycroft, this really is not the time.It’s—“

“I’m aware.Get in.”

The car dumps him off at the delivery entrance of a bakery.Mycroft is balancing on his umbrella tip to remain untouched between stacks of fifty-kilo bags of flour.He looks like a cat trying to navigate a thunderstorm.

John strides up to him, face red.“What the hell do you want?I need to get home.Sherlock is in—“

“Grave danger.Quite right, Dr. Watson.It is that which I need to—”

“Moriarty is free!”John’s voice is loud in the dead acoustics of the crowded storeroom.“The jury somehow found him not guilty, and he didn’t even have to lift a finger.And now he’s out there, somewhere, so if you think I’m just going to stand here and—“

Mycroft’s mouth is a thin line.“Mr. Moriarty has planned meticulously both his capture and his release.Rest assured, he has many other plans, but they do not include stepping around Sherlock any longer.Before he moves forward, he will kill my brother, most certainly.”

John’s face pales.“How—are you—“

“Sherlock has been entertaining for James, a worthy opponent, but the headaches caused by Sherlock's relentless investigations have worn thin.That game is over.If Sherlock does not stop his pursuit, he will die.”

John wipes a hand down his face.“Jesus.”He meets Mycroft’s steady gaze.“You know him.Sherlock will never stop.”

“I quite agree, which is why you, John, are the logical solution.” 

“ _I_ am?What—”

“John, had you any knowledge of my brother before you met him in the hospital lab? Ever see him on the news, find his face in the paper?” 

John squints at him and puts his hands on his hips.“Not that I can recall.So what?Why does that matter?”

“Because it is his…association with _you_ that has made the difference.” 

“Not doing cocaine might have had something to do with it.”

“Indeed, and why do you suppose that addiction was permitted to wane?You are not especially remarkable, but Sherlock apparently gleans something which I do not.Since he happened upon you, he has flourished, personally and professionally.The recovery of the Reichenbach painting, the rescue of the banker—only a couple of your more recent triumphs.” 

“What is your point, Mycroft?”John bites off each word.

The elder Holmes sighs heavily.“Isn’t it obvious?Logically, losing you would have the opposite effect.”

John’s eyes flash.His diction is deadly.“I’m not going to leave him.He’s my best friend.I’m not deserting him like everyone else has.”

Mycroft ignores the slight.“Of course not, John; you're going to die.”

John bends at the waist, breathing heavily.When he returns upright, his face is a vicious scarlet.He takes a menacing step forward.“Look, you have five seconds to tell me what the hell you’re talking about.Is this your brilliant solution?You’re going to _murder_ me?” 

“Oh, do be serious, Doctor.I am not speaking in the strictly literal sense, but for all intents and purposes, for this life as you and others know it, you will be dead.”

John presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.“This is insane.This is fucking _ridiculous_!”

Mycroft raises a bored eyebrow.He lifts his umbrella and vaguely examines its tip.“Of course, John, I'm sure you can simply tell my brother to back off, and he'll skip happily away.Then we can all bake cookies together and gossip about the dating habits of celebrities.Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

He shakes his head vigorously.“No.No, there has to be another way.There is ALWAYS another way!” 

Mycroft slams his umbrella to the concrete, face clenched.“No, there isn’t!Moriarty is at the eve of an entirely new operation.He has many active global cells, and next week, his plans will move forward.He will not allow Sherlock, regardless of the fun he may have been previously, to interfere.Moriarty has just proven his untouchability, his superiority—he is above our very rule of law.Now that there is nothing more to rub in Sherlock’s face, his patience will run out, and when it does, even I will not be able to stop the inevitable.”A single bead of sweat has formed at his temple.

Something clicks in John’s mind.“Get Sherlock,” he whispers.“He wrote that, at Tower Hill: _Get Sherlock_.”

“Yes, that message on the glass was not to taunt my brother as the papers proposed; the man simply put his intentions in writing so the cameras could record it before he provided the rather heavy-handed metaphor of shattering my brother’s moniker all over the floor.Our Mr. Moriarty is nothing if not poetic.”He smirks, then straightens his posture, flattens his waistcoat.“Sherlock must be derailed before then, removed decisively as a threat.” 

John staggers backwards and slumps down on an overturned bucket.His brain swirls and his vision runs dark.He dips his head between his knees for several minutes.Finally, he looks up at Mycroft.“But…even if I’m gone, won’t he just kill Sherlock anyway—to make absolutely sure he won’t pick up the investigation, to clean up the loose ends?”

“When this gets going, Mr. Moriarty will have far too much with which to concern himself.”His quiet tone is unnerving.“Besides, he will not want to end Sherlock’s life if it is to be lived in pain.Where would be the fun in that?And Sherlock will be indisposed for a quite some time.”John knits his eyebrows together and tilts his head to the side, prompting Mycroft to raise his eyes to the sky, as if pleading to the gods for the strength to deal with the idiocy of average human goldfish.“It appears you and my brother really are afflicted by the same disease.”

“What’s that?”

“Terminal blindness.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A long-suffering sigh. “Doctor, the clock is ticking, and Sherlock's time is nearly up. What do you suggest we do?”

 

* * *

 

 

John mounts the stairs at Baker Street with heavy, deliberate steps.Mycroft’s car had dropped him off two blocks north, but he had turned away toward the park, moving like a sleepwalker through the tourists and families, normal people living normal lives.Ordinarily, the very thought of that type of life, of the crushing conformity of it all, made him shudder.But now, he envied an ignorance in which dripping coffee onto a shirt or dropping a mobile onto the pavement seemed tragic.Apparently, there was a freedom to that existence, after all.

On the threshold he hesitates.He is stuck between impulses—one telling him to run away, one urging him onward. His subconscious chooses as his body automatically brings itself to attention.His heels snap together, chin up, shoulders square, and he takes a deep, fortifying breath. _Into battle_.

He uses two fingers to push open the door of the sitting room.

At first he is relieved.Sherlock is pacing quickly from the window to the kitchen and back again.His dressing gown swirls in the breeze he creates.The fingers of his right hand are crooked in front of his face; they move up and down mechanically, as if he were working out a melody intended for his violin strings.

If he notices John’s arrival, he doesn’t acknowledge it, and John resists the urge to slip back and retreat up the stairs to his room and lock the door behind him.Sherlock knows him too well.He rarely misses a tell, no matter how slight or carefully concealed.He reads John so adeptly that he could predict what check-out lane he will use at the grocery store or what he will want to eat for dinner at an entirely new restaurant, weeks in advance.Now, John has no story prepared for where he’s been, no defense against the lightening deductions that can flay him open and spread every thought and action out on the floor like his entrails drying in the sun.

Sherlock mutters to himself as he stalks from one wall to another, “Pattern…has to be…a few lines of code…the key.Bach.Key signature?G minor…is that relevant?Why would it be relevant?Come on, _think_!”He ruffles his hair viciously.

John shuffles a few steps into the room.He watches mutely for a few moments until his eyes fall on the tea tray, the fine China service they never use, with the two unfinished cups.“Sherlock…”

Sherlock growls, “Not now, John!” and swerves over to his arm chair, hopping into it feet-first and crouching with his elbows on his thighs, fingers steepled below his nose.

John slides his coat onto the rack and follows.Just as he’s about to fall into his own chair, he sees it on the mantle:an apple, crudely carved with the letters I O U.His blood runs cold.“What in the hell is that?”

Sherlock’s head lifts as if he’s surprised John’s still in the room.“What?Oh.”His hand makes a half-hearted wave before he resumes his thinking pose.

A swell of panic rises in John’s throat.“Sherlock, what _is_ that?He was here, wasn’t he?What did he do?”John is chilled to the bone.That psychopath has been here, alone with Sherlock, in their home. It is an obvious power play, just like the trial—a move to show that he can do what he wants, when he wants.The knowledge is like a nail relentlessly pounded into John’s heart:as long as he pursues Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes will never be safe.

“He wants to solve the problem, he said.’Our problem, the _final_ problem,’ he called it.Do you know what this means, John?We are close, _so_ close, and he knows it.That’s why he’s applying pressure, ludicrous attempts to throw us off.According to him, ‘it’ will start soon.He owes me, that’s what he said.He _owes_ me!Can you believe it?”Sherlock’s eyes are glittering like a child on Christmas morning.He leaps up and resumes his frenetic track around the room.

John quiets, inwardly crumpling, desperation filling in the gaps left by his rage.He stumbles after Sherlock, blocking him in the kitchen.“That’s it, Sherlock.Stay away from him.Please.For me.Let this go a while.” 

Sherlock rounds on him, eyes on fire. "After what he did to you?  To us?To the scores of innocent people whom you profess to _care_ about so much?You want to quit?Walk away?Let him win?"

"It's not about winning and losing. It is not really a game, no one's keeping score.  This is…this--"

"Are you afraid?" His tone is low, dangerous. When John doesn't answer, his anger carries him like a wave. "He's gotten to you, just like that?  Is that all it takes to knock you off your footing?  You're a soldier, for God's sake! You have ripped through the desert past IEDs and snipers, but _this_ man turns you into a coward?Do you _really_ think you’ll—”

John explodes.  "Fucking hell, THIS IS NOT ABOUT ME!" His hands grip the end of the table so tightly that his fingertips slip off suddenly with a snap.He spins around, panting, "He's going to kill you, Sherlock.This was his warning shot.Any more and you will _die_!" He slams his fist into the counter, jingling the collection of beakers. 

Sherlock turns his eyes down in an almost repentant gesture.  A retraction, an apology.  His voice shrinks, but it still rings firm, a bell sounding on a cold winter night.  "I'm not quitting, John.  Moriarty will never quit, so we can't either."  

_He'll never stop_.John’s stomach twists, his heart molten lead. He crams his fist into his forehead, eyes screwed shut.  Desperate panic wells in him, like a man strapped to the rails before an oncoming train. _Please, Sherlock!_ John’s mind is flooded by images; he pounds his head over and over, pushing back the terrible insistence of a shining white capsule held aloft to the light, a reptilian wink, the suffocating drape of Semtex, a momentary pool of calm from a shared nod before a long, steady arm raises to take aim—

Abruptly, he feels cool fingers envelop his wrist, pulling his arm down and away.  Soft lips touch his knuckles, then move to the red splotch on his brow.  A whisper, "Don't do that."

John breaks, collapsing to Sherlock's chest, a strangled sob pushing past the tight barrier of his throat.  "You--you don't understand!  I can't--if you--"

He feels Sherlock's other arm wrap around his waist, squeezing him closer. He rests his head against John's temple and murmurs to his ear, "It will be ok, John.  He will not kill me.  How could he?  I've got you.  And you'll never let that happen."

John twists the fabric of Sherlock's shirt around his fingers to try to squelch another sob. “No.No, I won’t.”He shivers, teeth chattering. _Always. Whatever it takes._

 

* * *

 

 

The phone box door silences the wind and rumble of traffic.The receiver is cold and sticky.

“Mycroft—“

“I’m glad you’ve seen reason, John.”

A bitter laugh.“Reason?Is that some kind of a joke?This is about as far from reason as I can get.”A gulp.“Where will I go?”

“Prague.The Czech connection is the strongest of Moriarty’s network.You happened to graze the tip of it in the revelation of the forged Vermeer.It just so happens the physician of his lieutenant there has recently slipped and ended up face down in the Vltava.Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?” 

“And you want me to take his place?”

“You’ll be given the full work-up—new name, altered military record, and a robust criminal history, which will endear you to your new employer.You will become a vital asset inside the network, one I could trust.”

“Asset.Right.You mean tool.”

“Choose whatever term you’d like, Doctor.”

“But you have an inside track on every government office in Britain.Don’t you have other people on this?It can’t be the first time you’ve infiltrated this network.”

“Obviously not, but loyalty is an illusory concept at best.Nearly everyone can be corrupted.It makes sense, to be fair—they are all trained to spy on people for money.”

A lingering silence.

“You…I mean, this…this is for sure, yeah?You’re positive that Sher…that…well, _after_ …that he’ll be ok?”A deep breath.“You have to promise me, Mycroft.For the love of God, promise me that Sherlock will be all right.”

A tactful pause.“He will be _alive_ , John.Of that I can assure you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Most Dangerous Game" is the title of a short story by Richard Connell. In it, a bored hunter takes to tracking humans, and it becomes a hunt to the death when he pulls a hunter of equal skill into his scheme. I've always loved the title's pun, and the situation seemed to fit nicely the Sherlock and Moriarty dynamic.


	3. All, Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New life gives way to crushing loss.

John had only been a resident of Baker Street for four months, but virtually from the start, he’d given up the illusion of personal space. Without either of them consciously deciding it, their lives had melded together and Sherlock filled every space John had available.On this particular morning, he realized just how literal that sentiment had become when he opened the door of his bedroom storage closet and was assaulted by six badminton cocks, a bag of assorted lightbulbs, and a gorilla head.

“SHERLOCK!”

A scuffing on the stairs“You’re shouting.Why are you shouting?”

“Look at this!What is all of this crap?”

“If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, these are valuable items that have helped us, at one time or another, to solve very troubling cases, John.It neither looks nor smells like excrement.”A pause before the droll mutter, “That orange jumper over there, however, is another matter entirely.”

“Why is this stuff in my closet?”

“Because you were annoyed with its previous placement.”

“You’d put it in the stove.”

“Yes.”

“Of course I was annoyed, you madman.The stove is an appliance, not a steamer trunk.It is used for making food, and when I turn it on to pre-heat, I do not want to start a chemical fire.”

“That was just the one time!”

“Once, true, but only because then we agreed that you would get all toxic and flammable substances out of any devices that might potentially cook a meal that you and I would ingest.”

“These things are not toxic.”Sniff.“Barely at all flammable…”

A firm hand up.“Forget it.Just forget it.Pull that box over here.We are getting rid of some of this.”

“ _We_?”

“Yes, we.You’re helping.”

“But the cat saliva trial is in its critical day three, and I—“

“You’re helping.”

Sigh.

John spent the next quarter hour with his head and torso shoved behind several coats, jingling them on their hangers as he handed out items one by one that could be donated to charity.A frisbee, various belts, two board games, an electric wok—John’s arms swung back and forth with regularity, his mumbling and cursing muted by the confined space.

Abruptly he leaned back holding a box in his fingertips, eyebrows nearly at his hairline.”Tap shoes?"

"Oh, those stay!"An adorable blush tinged the apples of Sherlock’s cheeks. 

John put the box aside and resurfaced a minute later.”Swim fins. Never saw these before."

A long hand twitched dismissively in the air."The Deardon case, John.The one with the lake and the ivory box full of--"

"Oh, right!”His eyes glittered.“Does that mean the red Speedo is in here, too?”No answer.“You were lucky, you know.Hypothermia can be life threatening..."

"Don't be ridiculous. It was April, and I was only…well, _exposed_ for twenty minutes, and it was truly spectacular that—”

John grinned, tongue poking the corner of his mouth. "Oh, yes, spectacular is _precisely_ the word I would use…”His eyebrows danced.

An exaggerated eye roll, but the blush deepened, and John laughed aloud.This man redefines lunacy and is very rarely embarrassed, so John absolutely loved when he could shake Sherlock off balance.

John shifted forward again into the closet and promptly resumed his random grousing.“There’s got to be…how is this…damn…maybe I’ll—“

There was a sudden stiffening of his spine, and a moment later, he leaned back into view.He eased to his feet and turned toward Sherlock, his orthopedic cane gripped in his hand.Sherlock glanced down at it, then gazed steadily into John’s eyes, face unreadable.

John stared at the object like it was a dangerous talisman, a solid and tangible curse.It was haunted.It conjured up the grey ghost that John used to be, an empty phantom stuck in the bland bedsit, marinating in his own anger and weakly skirting the spiral thoughts of the loaded gun shoved in the desk drawer. 

John held it so tightly that his arm started to shake.He raised it toward Sherlock, who wrapped his hand slowly around the cold metal.They stood there, locked, holding the oddly heavy weight of the cane between them. 

Finally, John swallowed down a tightness in his throat.He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and nodded once at Sherlock.“Get rid of it.”Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face, achingly soft.“Someone else might need it.I found my cure.”

John stepped back.His eyes remained fixed on Sherlock.

He let go.

* * *

 

John shuffles into the sitting room, heart pressing through the buttons of his shirt. The flat's silence is ponderous.He falls blindly onto the sofa, hands numb and useless on his lap, staring into the darkness.He’d half expected Sherlock to awaken, to feel him go, some telling rumble reaching him through the connective tissue of the floorboards to dictate the oscillation, the retreat, and the slow ebb as the maw of the city pulled John away and drowned out the steady beat of his heels.

But Sherlock’s body had involuntarily shut down that night, one of those rare occasions when his marathon of sleeplessness throughout the trial and the frenzy which had followed Moriarty’s visit finally were stymied by the pressing needs of restorative biology.John was alone.

The first time he had gone to war, he had been eager for action.He’d had the best training, was headed into a zone of chaos with the backing of other men and their cutting-edge technology and weaponry.There was no hesitation at all.He was leaving behind only his restlessness and dissatisfaction—the unappealing prospect of clinic work or private practice, and a complete lack of attachment to any other person.He was a stranger in his own life.He had plenty of acquaintances but few actual friends, a string of former girlfriends he’d barely known, and no real family to speak of.His own sister hadn’t even shown up to see him off.

This is something else entirely.

The life he has built at Baker Street is one he never thought he would have.How could he?How could he ever have planned for a maddening puzzle like Sherlock Holmes?Sherlock is a tornado wrapped in an earthquake, his sunlight and starry sky.Since he met Sherlock, he has never been so consistently exhausted and terrified, enraged and confused. _Perfection_.Without question, the very best years of his entire life.

John can see the bare outline of the two chairs by the fireplace.One careworn and rounded, the other metal-framed and angular; soft fabric and cool leather; traditional and modern.An ideal match.

Suddenly he hears a rustle of silk and a rumpled Sherlock appears in the entrance to the kitchen, barefooted. "John?" His tone is sleepy innocence, pure and guileless.He rubs at his eyes and blinks to try to focus in the darkness.

John stares at him, at the riot of curls, the long V of ivory skin visible through the dressing gown hastily tied at his waist, the miraculous cheekbones that cast shadows over the rest of his face.Something tears loose inside of John.Buried tumblers finally click into place and open him up, a floodgate that washes away every reserve John had built up over time, the months of ignoring and pretending, resisting what he could never allow himself to admit that he wants—needs, more than his next breath.

_Breathing is boring_.

Without a word he rises and takes two quick steps forward. If he speaks, Sherlock will know. Sherlock will see it all in the set of his shoulders and deduce every thought from the tone of his voice. So he simply acts, throws away Mycroft and Moriarty, all of the hesitance and the fear. He grabs Sherlock's face and latches onto his hazy questioning gaze, momentary confusion which morphs to a sharp dark lust, an echo of the interior of John’s very own heart. Sherlock scarcely can gulp a breath before John's mouth is on him.

John’s not sure how he’s managed to exist as long as he has without his tongue knowing the soft sheen of the inside of Sherlock’s mouth, without hearing the sighs and soft moans that tumble from him when John slides his fingers into his hair and pulls tight or kisses the underside of his jaw.He is certain he’s lived his whole life when Sherlock breathes his name like a benediction and sags in his embrace. 

But John’s strong hands hold him up, guide him back to his own mattress with purpose and care.He wants to take apart every bit of Sherlock, to commit him to memory.If this is the very last time they are together in this space they’ve made their home, then John wants to know the feel of Sherlock’s sweat-slicked skin with his own, the delicious friction of moving against him, over and over, how Sherlock arches up towards him with his head thrown back and incomprehensible words tumbling from his gorgeous mouth.He will not leave until he learns every centimeter of Sherlock’s lips, soft and full, with his own, and how those lips can wrap around him as pure bliss.John will savor the taste of Sherlock’s earlobes and hip bones, his clavicle and his navel, the inside of his thighs and the soles of his feet.

He will climb on top of Sherlock, fit together their dips and their swells like a padlock and skeleton key, panting declarations he’s kept stuffed in the inner most chambers of his soul.He will run his fingertips along his temples and hairline, down the steps of his spine to the silken mound of his arse, worship the feel of Sherlock’s legs wrapped around him as his hands grip the pillow beneath his head.He refuses to leave without Sherlock’s teeth marks on his chest and his scent smothering John’s nostrils and imprinting upon his brain.

And when Sherlock finally collapses, sated and hot and clinging to John, he will plant a kiss to the crown of dark curls and whisper, “I love you,” until his quiet tears have run dry.

Then, he will hold Sherlock fiercely against him, nose to nape, until he has absolutely no choice but to let go.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes shutter open to grey daylight.For a few seconds, his brain is foggy, but then the memories of last night rush in.He rouses slowly, small movements inciting a delicious ache, an assurance for him it had not been just a marvelous, epic dream.He looks down at himself, expecting to still see John’s hands flat against his abdomen and chest, gripping him possessively, pressing himself against the length of Sherlock’s back.It was the last sensation he’d reveled in before losing consciousness.

Sherlock covers his face to hide his besotted smile, then rolls over to wake John properly.

John’s indent remains on the right side of his bed, but the sheets are cold.Sherlock is alone.

He sits up and looks around, an odd feeling skittering across his skin.It is totally silent, like a thick blanket had been thrown over the building, blocking out the normal city noises that should filter in.But there’s something more, some indefinable taint to the air, like a whisper of carbon monoxide before a victim succumbs to suffocation. 

The sudden chirping of his mobile makes him jump.He squints at the screen:Lestrade. _What now?_ He swipes the glass and sighs, “This had better be good, Inspector.”

 

* * *

 

The doors of the Intensive Therapy Unit explode.

The wild-eyed maniac wearing Sherlock Holmes’s coat and shoes descends on the two nurses at the desk who hold up their hands and try foolishly to shush him.“John Watson, _Doctor_ John Watson—is he here?Where is he?What is the _matter_ with you?SPEAK!Tell me where he is.Now!Tell me _right now!”_ He slams his fists down, tipping a glass vase of yellow flowers on the counter.The water pools and drips over the edge, splatting on the linoleum below.

The two women crowd closer to one another, the older of the two inching her hand for the phone to ring security.Relief washes over their faces when an interior door opens.

“YOU!”Sherlock spits, lunging forward and grabbing Lestrade by the lapels of his trench coat and pulling him up to his tiptoes.“You have exactly two seconds to tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here!Where is John?What’s happened to him?” 

Greg’s voice is level, contained.“He’s been in an accident.Dispatch alerted me when his identification was found at the scene.His taxi slammed into a concrete barrier. There was a fuel leak which ignited.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and shakes the detective.“That makes no sense, you goddamn imbecile.Where was he going, huh?Why was he in a taxi at 6:00 in the morning?Do you actually know anything because that makes _no fucking sense_!”Abruptly, he throws Lestrade away, crashing him into the desk as if he were a toy.“Enough!Where is John?I want to talk to him!” 

The inspector gains his footing and adjusts his coat.His expression is grim, but he merely shakes his head and replies quietly,“We don’t know the circumstances of his trip.He’s not…he’s not conscious.”

Sherlock turns his red eyes toward him.His hair is a nest of spikes, pale skin an unholy pallor under the hospital’s fluorescent lights.Breath rattles in and out of his chest in short bursts.“What does that mean?”He snatches a metal clipboard from the desk and smashes it to the ground.He takes a menacing step forward.“What _really_ happened, Lestrade?What aren’t you telling me?

Greg stands his ground.He opens his mouth but can’t seem to find the words.Sherlock growls, picking up the fallen vase and heaving it at the wall.It shatters spectacularly, the glass becoming a sparkling dust that puffs out into the air.

“Sherlock, stop!”Lestrade grabs him by the bicep and spins Sherlock around.“Just stop!Look, when the gas lit, it created a fireball.”He points to the doors from which he’d emerged.“John is tented in the burn unit.”Lestrade’s face pinches, but he presses on.“Sherlock, they don’t expect him to…he won’t last the day.”

“ _No_!”He reaches blindly for a plastic chair by the wall and heaves it over his head.The nurses duck as it sails past to dent a metal filing cabinet against the far wall.“No, that’s not…You’re _lying_!You snake!Why would you…how could you say…”The detective is seething, his face an alarming shade of red.White saliva gathers in the corners of his mouth.

Greg’s head drops.When he looks up again a few seconds later, his eyes are wet.He shakes his head slowly.“I’m…I’m sorry, Sherlock.”He walks over to the interior doors and holds one open.“Come on.”

Lestrade leads him down a short, empty corridor to one of a few hushed rooms that extend from it.The room is cramped and dim.There is a bed in the corner of the room, and through the blurry plastic tenting around it, Sherlock can make out the lines of John’s face, bloody and blackened and wrong.His fringe of blonde hair looks like straw.His body is posed awkwardly; the stubs of his fingertips poke out from loose gauze casting. 

Sherlock sinks into the solitary wooden chair next to the bed and just stares.A useless machine beeps out John’s mechanical heartbeat, unaffected by Sherlock's presence, and a stray corner of his mind insists that's not right because only hours before, his strong heart was racing under Sherlock's touch, chest heaving, lips moist and gentle. Another machine hisses as it inflates John’s lungs for him, a hideous impersonation of the ghost of breath that had tickled his ear and sent shivers down to Sherlock’s bones and goosebumps up to his surface.

Lestrade clears his throat and mumbles something about giving him some privacy.A few moments later, the door clicks shut.

Sherlock’s mind palace has collapsed.His brain is white noise, rejecting input of any kind.He feels nothing.All that remains for him is an absent numbness, an abyss.This—this vacant figure—isn’t John.John giggles at his own jokes and types awkwardly with two fingers.John hums when he does the dishes and reads the newspaper with his tongue clamped in the corner of his mouth.John hates when others make a fuss over him, hates when he's vulnerable.John loves when Sherlock is brilliant and irascible, loves when Sherlock is witty and mercurial, loves Sherlock. 

Sherlock sits and stares.

He is there when Lestrade ushers in various members of New Scotland Yard who cluck and utter useless platitudes, then wander out to have hushed conversations in the hallway.

He is there when a team forms around John's bed unhooking the machines.He is there when the beeping becomes a steady tone, and then silence. 

He is there when nurses wheel the bed from the room. He's left staring at an empty wall and a handful of discarded leads that have fallen to the ground. 

He is there three hours later, unmoved, when orderlies return an empty gurney with fresh sheets to the room. 

No one sees when Sherlock finally leaves, but when Lestrade returns to force him home after night has fallen, the room is lifeless.He is alone.


	4. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reels in the aftermath of John's death.

“I don’t know, Anderson, just check it again.”

The tech huffs and squats down, grumbling his usual string of impotent protests.Lestrade crosses his arms to avoid reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.It wouldn’t do to dust his own crime scene with ash.He turns up his collar against the gusts of wind that sweep up the embankment.

He and his small cluster of officers stand at the crest of a small hill in a secluded corner of the park, surrounding the corpse of a middle-aged woman propped against the trunk of a willow tree.A patrolman hovers off to the side, interviewing the couple who found the body.Lestrade holds out a pair of gloves to Sally Donovan and shakes them.“Help him, would you?I’d like to get out of here before dark.”

Sally smirks.“Sure, no problem.I like to snap on the latex as much as any man.”

Lestrade scans the spilt remains of an Igloo cooler on the ground near his feet:red apple, half-eaten sprig of grapes, bologna sandwich still zipped in its baggie.“Who the hell has a picnic on a Wednesday at this time of year?”

“Um, Boss?”

He glances up at Sally’s face, which has gone slack.He follows the track of her eyes to a tall figure approaching them, fidgeting to pull his charcoal suit into alignment.Greg breathes, “Holy shit.”

When Sherlock reaches the top of the hill, all conversation dries up.Everyone stares at the detective in the awkward silence that ensues.Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice; he keeps his eyes trained on the victim.

It has only been a week since John’s death.Lestrade has not seen nor heard from Sherlock since; his numerous text and voice messages were flatly ignored, and the two trips he’d made to Baker Street met with nothing but a firmly locked door.

On the second visit, when he finally gave up pleading and pounding on the door, he had turned to see Mrs. Hudson leaning around the bannister, watching him.He briefly caught her eyes, the momentary hope in them winking out.She shook her head mournfully, tears choking her, “Oh, dear!” and disappeared into her flat.

However Sherlock was dealing with his loss, he was doing it entirely on his own.That knowledge set off sirens in Greg’s head, but short of hauling Sherlock to the Yard and arresting him, he had no choice but to respect what seemed the man’s need for privacy to grieve in the way he saw fit.

“Name?”

Lestrade snaps his mouth shut and licks his lips.“Oh, ah, Linda Cahill, fifty-two years old, secretary at a veterinary clinic.”

“Which?”

“One World Pets. Treats the usual lot of dogs and cats, as well as exotics.Been in operation twelve years.   It’s about three blocks from here.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond.His translucent eyes flick over the woman, neck twisting minutely to get a view of either side of her.The young officer gapes, pen frozen over his forgotten notepad; Anderson’s face has reddened but he doesn’t look up.Sally catches Lestrade’s gaze, her eyebrows knitting together.No one knows how Sherlock has found them or why he’s decided to track them down.

Greg raises a palm of assurance to them.He looks over at the detective and clears his throat, “So, Sherlock, how are things—“

He cuts himself off, squinting sharply at Sherlock.He looks to have showered, his suit cleaned and pressed per its usual, but something is very wrong.There is a small trickle of blood on the other man’s cheek.Apparently, he’d cut himself shaving, twice, but he hadn’t even felt it.Then, Greg notices Sherlock’s shirt buttons: he’s missed one of the holes, causing them all to snake drunkenly out of line.

Sherlock angles his torso to his left in a smooth motion that suddenly strikes Lestrade as an athlete’s muscle memory, an action honed by repeated practice.Natural, automatic.His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but there’s no one standing there, so he abruptly folds inward and addresses the question to his armpit.“Time of death?”

“Well, Anderson here is trying to work that out.” 

The line is a purposeful softball lobbed in Sherlock’s face, a test.But the detective remains impassive like he’s not even heard, sliding to his right to get a better look at the woman’s foot, which had dug so hard into the earth that her heel had cracked off.As his large hand is poised over the victim’s toes, Greg realizes it is shaking due to the shimmying of the fat blob of sweat dangling at the tip of his index finger, suspended in time.

Then, it falls.

Sherlock is suddenly wracked with tremors.He stumbles backward down the hill, chest heaving with short breaths.He teeters and falls to one knee, hunching forward and vomiting a thick line of saliva into the grass.

“Oh, Christ.”Lestrade sprints forward and skids next to Sherlock.He grabs him by the shoulder to try to support his weight.Sherlock’s skin is on fire, but his lips are white and quivering.His eyes are glassy.His pulse is pounding so hard that Lestrade can watch it flutter under the thin white skin of Sherlock’s neck. 

Without thinking, Lestrade clicks into parent mode.His oldest daughter had suffered a rash of panic attacks when she was in school.Instinctively, he rubs a hand back and forth across Sherlock’s bony shoulder blades.“Breathe.Just concentrate on your breathing.”Greg keeps his voice level and unaffected.“It’s all right, it’s ok, don’t worry, you’re going to get through this.”

Sherlock jerks away.He folds his arms against his body, face pinched.“No.”His voice is small, like a child’s.

“Yes, of course you will.It’s just a bit soon after John to—“

“ _No_!” 

Sherlock shoves him off.He looks at Lestrade like he doesn’t even recognize him and staggers away, rounding a corner and disappearing out of sight.

Greg takes a step to follow but thinks better of it.He kicks the ground. “Son of a bitch!”He is thoroughly pissed at himself for not understanding what was going on sooner, for not staying with him at the hospital, for not busting through the lock at Baker Street and somehow manhandling Sherlock through his sadness. 

_Oh, call it what it is_. 

His heartbreak.

He pulls his mobile from his coat pocket and taps the screen.“Mycroft Holmes, please…yes, I’ll wait.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft pushes open the peeling red door with the tip of his umbrella.Where CCTV does not go, Sherlock’s own homeless network does, and it seems his brother is not the only Holmes they’ll service with information for a price.He sighs heavily and steps inside.After a moment, he crinkles his imperious nose and picks his way through the detritus of the abandoned building, over exposed rebar and up three flights of stairs.The various squatters glower or skitter like roaches. 

The large room on the third floor is empty, save scattered copies of The Sun and copious amounts of pigeon poop, though determining which is which is nearly impossible.He continues around a corner, to the far end of the hallway.

“Hello, brother dear,” comes the sleepy murmur.“Have a seat, won’t you?” 

With a smirk, he declines the end of the ragged green velvet couch that Sherlock is curled on and leans instead on the hook of his umbrella.Sherlock is in a dark raincoat and grey sweatpants.His greasy hair hangs over one eye.He has the beginnings of a scruffy beard and, based upon the stir in Mycroft’s nose hair, has not showered in exactly nine days.“Well, Sherlock, you’ve certainly found delightful accommodations.How did you happen upon this little corner of paradise?”

“Oh, as if I’d tell you.” 

“Is this how you’re spending your time these days?”

“Haven’t had any pressing engagements in last the month.Thought I’d treat myself.”

“Dr. Watson’s funeral was not pressing then, I take it?You apparently couldn’t be bothered to attend that.”

“Nope.”

“So the passing of your tediously boring flatmate did not merit your attention?”

“I guess not.”

“Not that it surprises me, mind you.That little man was hardly worth your time.I’m not sure why you pitied him enough to waste as much on him as you did.”

Mycroft’s spine straightens.At this point, Sherlock’s vitriol should be unmatched, but he is passive, calm.Things are worse than he’d thought.

“And how are you faring, in your flat alone?”

“I’m thinking of staying here.Airy, quiet.Certainly better rent.”

“What would he say, do you think?What would John tell you if he were here, right now?

Sherlock smiles,brown stains crowning his teeth. “He’d tell me my brother is an insufferable prat and that I should punch him is his beak.”

“How droll.”

Sherlock sighs.He snuggles further into the threadbare fabric.“It is good to see you, though.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rise precipitously.“It is now?And why would that be?”

“Look at the way the sun shines in here.”Sherlock peers into the brightness over Mycroft’s shoulder.“Remember the treehouse?”

“The what?”

“The treehouse, the one we found in the woods at Musgrave.I know, it was just a few boards nailed between branches, but I loved it.I could climb up there and hide when I needed to think or read.It made me feel unreachable…invincible.”

“Until one of the boards broke, and you fractured your ulna.”

Sherlock rubs one eye with the knuckle of his index finger.“Those woods were so dense and dark, but there was a single gap in the canopy, and every afternoon a circle of light would shine on me, right on my face.It was like a secret gift meant specifically for me...only for me...”He eyes close for a better view of somewhere else.“It was wonderful.”

Mycroft’s chest constricts ever so slightly.He frowns, looking down at the tips of his Bruno Maglis.“Fantasies often are, Sherlock,” he says quietly, “but sooner or later, we have to let go of them if we hope to survive reality.”

Sherlock rolls over and huddles into a tighter ball, forehead against the couch’s back.“So good of you to stop by, Mycroft.You can show yourself out.”

“Yes.”Mycroft pauses briefly in the doorway.“Oh, and Sherlock…be sure to make a list.” 

As he is whisked away in the Jaguar, Mycroft works the handle of his umbrella with troubled fingers.  It is a paradox, to be sure:  he is never wrong, but somehow that does not equate with being always right.  He fears he may have miscalculated the effect of his plan, a rather large underestimation of its impact because he seems to have been missing some relevant data.

He deduced sufficiently what John’s feelings were in this matter; that man is so easy to read he practically has captions under his chin.However, it is obvious now that he’s devalued the other side of that equation.The true nature of Sherlock’s attachments to the army doctor—that variable is significantly greater than Mycroft had bargained. 

Mycroft rubs his chin meditatively. _Most inconvenient_.He just may have given Moriarty his wish after all.When that car hit the wall, it burned the heart out of Sherlock, as surely as if he’d perished himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs. Hudson pushes the door to the street shut with her hip.The twinge that radiates in the joint makes her press her lips together in frustration.Too many years since she’s had a good tango in killer heels, she figures ruefully.On the other hand, any pain is a reminder that she’s still alive.

Much like this bloody utility bill. 

She clucks her tongue and walks through the entryway to her flat.As she passes the stairs, she hears a dry cough.Her heart leaps.“Sherlock!”

She drops the letters on the table and scampers up the first flight.When she reaches the landing, she sees a foot hanging over the edge of the top step.

That can’t be good. 

“ _Sher_ lock?”

He has been missing for three weeks.Whether that brother of his has known where he has been, she cannot say.It’s not as if that ponce would keep her informed of what is going on with this boy.

At present, he is sleeping.She kneels down next to the heap of him, hunkered in the space outside of his own sitting room door, which is closed, the same as it has been since John passed a month ago.A series of soft snores putter out of him, ruffling the scraggly facial hair he’d grown.There are brown leaves in his hair, and he smells like mildew.

Martha stabs at his shoulder with her fingernail.“Oh, please wake up, dear!Are you hurt?Please tell me you’re all right.”

A rumble emerges.“Quit poking me.”

Her jaw drops.All of her hand-wringing and sleepless nights, and he is giving her sass?“You listen to me, young man—I have worried myself sick about you.You disappear for _weeks_ and don’t even bother to let me know you’re alive.And when you finally deign to show up, you take an attitude with me?I’ll not have it!”She gets to her feet and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

There are a few moments of silence before a contrite mutter, “Sorry.”

Her flash of anger is spent.She squats down again and puts her hand over his.“Sherlock, dear, I know you’re hurting.It is so terrible what happened, I still can’t quite believe it myself.”She strokes his arm.“What are you doing out here?Why are you lying on the floor?Let’s go inside, and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

Sherlock slides up to a sitting position, leaning heavily against the door frame.He scratches at his temples.“No.I cannot go in there.”

“Why, Sherlock?”

His red eyes partially focus on her.“It’s abhorrent,” he huffs.“Toxic.Contaminated.”

She pats his leg.“Is that all?   I've a slew of cleaning supplies.  Let me take a look, dear.”She steps over him and opens the door, taking a few steps into the sitting room.Hands on her hips, her practiced eye roves slowly over the two rooms.They look the same as they did a month ago, as if they’d been preserved in a bottle.In fact, the flat looks to be in the same state of semi-disarray as it was the month before that and the month before that.She can practically see Sherlock at the table craning over his microscope and John at the desk working on his—

Oh.

_Oh, that poor, sweet boy!_

She sniffs, eyes dampening.It makes perfect sense now.

She returns to the hallway and extends her arm toward him.“Come on.Let’s go in together.I can help you tidy up, just this once.”

He merely tilts his head and gives her a hard stare.

She presses her lips together.“Oh, Sherlock, it’s time.It really is.You should be here—it’s your home!”

He gives a hollow chuckle.“No.”He stands slowly without touching her offered hand.“No, Mrs. Hudson.This is four walls and a ceiling.I have no home.”


	5. Poppies for Young Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Poppies for young men, death's bitter trade..."
> 
> Sting, "Children's Crusade"

**Surveillance Report:No Activity.**

 Mycroft rubs the bridge of his nose.  It has been the same thing now for eight months:  no activity.

Sherlock inevitably is a man of extremes.He avoids his flat for a solid month, but once he enters at his landlady’s insistence, he’s not exited.Not once, as far as the government is concerned.He takes fairly regular deliveries of groceries; papers and post arrive daily, frequent cardboard boxes from chemical supply companies, though the invoices reveal nothing excessively disturbing.Twice each month, oneunsavory character or another slithers in and out, and Mycroft has no illusions what business is being transacted in those cases.

New Scotland Yard has had little input.Sherlock’s tenure as consulting detective is temporarily suspended since the man himself deemed the work “pedestrian” and “stagnating.”Efforts by Lestrade to re-engage Sherlock’s assistance were flatly rejected.After the one anomaly in Regent’s Park, he’d had no further contact.A noticeable decline in the Detective Inspector’s conviction rate has resulted, Mycroft notes wryly, a small hint of pride layered in, to which he would never willingly admit.(It had taken Mycroft himself to determine that woman had died when bitten by a rather large _Poecilotheria ornata_ which she had taken from her place of employment, secured in her lunch pail, intent upon freeing it from its imposed captivity, though it required a full three-minute examination of the police report. _Alas, age comes to us all_ , he muses wistfully.)

Mycroft glances at his watch, then scoops up his mobile.“Has the package been delivered?Good.Special unwrapping on this one, and prep for distribution on Tuesday.I’m on my way.”

His office door opens.“You messaged, sir?”

“Get the car, Anthea.It’s time to make a visit to Baker Street.”

 

* * *

 

 

The door to the roof creaks in protest, but with a decisive shove, Mycroft steps out into the stiff breeze of the London night.He’s led to the northwest lip of the building by the undulating lines of a solo violin.Sherlock stands atop the ledge, facing away to the quiet street, his midnight blue dressing gown flipping to his right under the insistent wind.He cranks the bow mercilessly across the instrument’s strings.Abruptly, he drops his arms.

“What now?”

“Hello to you, too, dear brother.Bartok.Now, that is an interesting choice.”

“Thank you, I was so terribly curious what you thought.”He turns on his tiptoes toward Mycroft.“Oh, wait—no, I really wasn’t.”

“I just wanted to check in, verify that you are functioning within acceptable limits.”

“A social call?How charming!”For two seconds, Sherlock beams a thousand-watt grin before it snaps off into his scowl.“Mission accomplished.You can leave now.”

Mycroft watches Sherlock meander along the ledge, casually, as if tempting gravity to do what he himself cannot do.“I can’t say that’s a bad idea,” Sherlock drawls, reading his thoughts.“It would be so easy, so _quick_ , just to float over the edge, sweep down to the pavement in a quiet tumble.”He twirls his arms and stops abruptly to peer straight down.His voice becomes a coo.“Such a comforting idea—the rush of air like a lullaby that soothes to a dreamless sleep.”He raises his arms to the sky and lifts up onto the balls of his feet like an Olympic diver, then glances back at Mycroft.“Join me?”

Mycroft clamps down his unsettled glare.His voice is brittle, merciless.“It appears someone needs to recalculate his dosages.”

Sherlock throws back his head and cackles.

The elder Holmes releases his most withering sigh.He anchors his right thumb in his pocket.“I understand you’ve become quite the recluse, brother mine, holed up here at Baker Street, like a large _odiferous_ rabbit.  The world has continued to revolve, you might be surprised to discover.Aren’t you the least bit worried you might miss some interesting events, strange occurrences?”

Sherlock’s face contorts in mock surprise, and he holds his arms to the side.“What could I possibly miss?I’ve got the whole world right here!”He bows a blistering lick on the violin.“A great view of the city.”Another flourish. “The best music either of us has ever heard, despite your Culture Club phase in the spring of 1984.”A vicious mordent.“And, before tonight, no cretins to harass and annoy me with their irrelevant blithering!”A final crescendo and he hops down from the ledge.“Satisfied?”

“Remembrance Day is this week,”Mycroft states, hawk-eye absorbing any minute change of Sherlock’s features.

“Oh, progressed to learning the calendar, have you?Mummy will be so proud!”

“There is a ceremony planned at Mount Peace Cemetery.” _Ah!A micro-tremor of the left cheek_.

“Fascinating!”is the broadly yawned reply.

“I think you should go.”

“Do you?”Sherlock blinks innocently.“And I think I’ll not take advice from someone who eats processed cheese as a condiment.Is it seven pounds you’ve put on?Eight, perhaps?”

“Sherlock…”

“It’s no matter.”He pats Mycroft’s cheek.“I’ll feel the same about you whether or not you’re shirt could double as a weather balloon.”

“Mount Peace is honoring its veterans.I am confident that this year’s events will be ones that will interest you.”Mycroft doesn’t miss the millisecond’s worth of slackened jaw.It is enough.

Sherlock rolls his head back and forth, cracking his neck.“Cemeteries are trite and worthless repositories for decaying remains.I’m surprised you haven’t outlawed them for their criminal waste of real estate.”

Mycroft looks out to the skyline.“People seem to need a place to reacquaint themselves with their past.As such, they do have a measure of value.”He presses his lips into a flat line, sharpening the tip of his nose.

“The past is dead, Mycroft.So’s the future, for that matter.”

“I never took you for a nihilist.”

“I’m not.I’m a realist.”

“Since when?”

“Does it matter?”

“Is that the nihilist in you talking?”

“If so, accept it for what it is.”

“I’m not sure that’s advisable.”

“You could be right, realistically speaking.”

Mycroft lips twitch.He nods his good-bye, but he pauses to examine Sherlock from the shadows.   For just a moment, he sees the four-year-old boy framed by the doorway of the kitchen in their childhood home, chin trembling, eyes swollen from crying, inconsolable because Mycroft had to leave him to go to school.It was that moment that he first vowed to always take care his baby brother, no matter how painful the path nor complicated the journey.The memory moves him to something perilously close to sentiment. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock trudges through the long grass down the low slope of ground, pulled by the mournful notes of a solo trumpet.For November, the air is mild, but the wind seems to tunnel through the small plot of Mount Peace, forcing him to fold in the wings of his Belstaff and tie his blue scarf tighter.

He cannot begin to fathom why he’s here.

A wretched cavity in his mind knows that somewhere in the silent rows is a piece of granite with John Watson’s name carved in it, quietly acknowledging his military rank and marking for all the limited range of his life.So blithely giving him a specific end date.

Sherlock will never lay eyes on that stone.He would sooner pluck them from their sockets.

He lurks on the barest fringes of the small gathering, taking in the unbroken grey slate of the sky, the pitted gravel road that winds around the wobbly ellipse of the cemetery, the crooked iron gate that serves more for display than security.He watches the clusters of families, the tearful ones and the stoics, the reverence that they show to the cold hunks of rock crouching in the grass.

But Sherlock feels none of it.He is blank.

_Nice try, Mycroft, you insidious worm._

The trumpeter has completed his musical tribute.He bids a formal farewell in his smart uniform and retreats, leaving the group of civilians to bleed into rows, pointing and hugging and dabbing their faces with wads of tissue. 

Sherlock pushes off of the tree trunk he’s angled against.A misty rain has started, but he pays it no mind.He crunches along the road, up a small rise to where an unassuming chapel sits overshadowed by pine trees.Something makes him hesitate, a peculiar impulse he cannot define.It’s not as if he has any religious inclinations.One side of the chapel’s door is open wide, like a mute invitation, a peek inside of a private diary.The fallen needles and cones have been swept away, making a curious path to its interior.

He ducks inside and slides into a pew.The quiet is palpable.There is a small altar presided over by a chipped statue of the Virgin Mary, her right arm outstretched, beckoning.Atop the white cloth on the altar is a clear glass vase holding a single red poppy.He stares at it, at the votive candles surrounding it as they simmer and melt.Odd—such a simple change of phase from solid to liquid, yet still mesmerizing.

To his left, he hears a tentative scraping against the concrete, sees movement in the periphery.When he finally glances up, he leans back heavily and sighs, “Oh.Hullo, John.”

 

* * *

 

John wipes his sweaty palm against his trouser leg.He had no idea what to expect from this reunion.Were it reversed, John imagines he would probably leap at Sherlock’s throat and knock him bodily to the floor.But whatever he had envisioned for this moment, it was definitely not this.A small comfort that at least one thing hadn’t changed:Sherlock’s endless ability to surprise him.He swallows hard.“Hi.”The word emerges as nearly a whisper.His mouth is dry as tinder.He hovers in the corner, shoving his fists into his coat pockets.“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

A smirk.“Oh, spare me, you did, too, just like I knew I’d see _you_ lurking somewhere around here.”

John’s eyebrows raise.“You did?He—Mycroft told you that I—“

Sherlock crosses his legs.“What, _inform_ me of something and shatter his near-perfect adherence to the principles of passive aggression?Such heresy!”He chuckles lightly, then scrubs a hand through his disheveled hair.“Let’s not talk about him.Tell me again about the cluster.”

Again, John is thrown.“The—the what?”

Long fingers wiggle in the air.“Oh, you know, that _one,_ the one you absolutely _insisted_ I march to the roof not four nights ago to observe, as if that would somehow make it all so dreadfully interesting.”

John feels his stomach make an unpleasant turn.He takes a tentative step forward.“Sherlock, I know you must be…I…I’ve been away for a while and…and you’re probably…it might be…overwhelming for you right now to—“

“Oh, fine—the Pleiades!”He sits forward and rests his forearms on the back of the pew in front of him.“There.No need to get snippy.”He rolls his eyes.“I _do_ actually listen when you talk.” He points an accusing finger at John.“You are the one who’s being evasive, but don’t worry; you needn’t tell me why you like it so much.”

John has started to sweat in the chapel’s chill, dead air.He moves closer and steadies himself against the pew’s wooden arm.“Sherlock, no, I—“

“Shall I tell you?Obvious, really.The melodrama of the mythological tale would be enough to enchant you.The Pleiades, or seven sisters, named for the seven daughters of Atlas, the ones hunted relentlessly by Orion, so to protect them, Zeus himself flung them to the heavens as stars.”A long arm arcs overhead with a grin.“Ah, a happy ending.”

John grips the wood with white knuckles.“I don’t know what you’re talking about Sherlock, “ he says, his voice low, careful.He swings in and sits on Sherlock’s bench, just feet away now. 

But as soon as he scoots closer, Sherlock jolts up and wags an index finger at him.“But wait—there’s more!You love a good mystery, don’t you?”He jumps up on the bench and walks it like a balance beam.“There are seven sisters, yes, but when examined with the naked eye during prime nighttime conditions, only six stars are visible.The seventh is hidden, obscured by the light of the others;always there, always watching, but never seen.”He kicks his leg out and does a jaunty dismount at the other end.“Kudos, Doctor!It really is a stellar fiction.”He clucks his tongue.“No stealing, now.Stick to your own stories, John, or the universe will know of it.”

With a cheery wave, Sherlock pivots and sweeps through the door into the rain.

John gasps and screws his eyes shut to ride out a wave of nausea.His left hand clenches and unclenches spasmodically.“Oh my God, my God…” _What the hell have I done?_ Sherlock thinks he’s a delusion, one he’s had frequently enough not to question it.One that teases him and tells him stories and cajoles him into action.

One that never tricked him and left him all alone.

When he can stand, John bolts out of the door, but Sherlock has long since vanished.He sprints to the main road, in time to see a curly head slide into a taxi.John darts in and around three lanes of traffic to hail his own, netting him a chorus of car horns and squealing tires, and matching middle fingers from the driver of a passing bus.

The ride could not have been more than fifteen minutes.That’s all.But it is time enough for John to chew off a fingernail and call himself every filthy name he’s ever known.He cannot get the sight of Sherlock out of his mind:his face, paler and gaunter; his eyes, missing their keen sharpness, their light; his coat, that signature Belstaff that once perfectly complemented his broad shoulders and solid frame, now weighing him down like a awkward burden. 

When the driver goes awry by slipping accidentally into a turning lane, John punches the seat and shouts, “Oh, come _on_!”It earns him an icy stare through the rearview.

By some miracle, they turn onto Baker Street as Sherlock is hunched at the front door to unlock it.John scoots forward.“Here, right here!This is good, thank you!” He tosses a handful of bills at the driver and tears down the sidewalk, getting a palm around the door before it can shut.

He squeezes into the front hall as Sherlock disappears up the stairs.John follows, taking them two at a time, making it through the sitting room door on his heels.“Sherlock—“

His words tie around his tongue when he sees the interior of the flat.There are waist-high stacks of newspapers, numerous ones, on the floor and by the window sills.Every bit of wall space is now taken by clips of images, articles, scribbled notes—tacked or stapled in place, and the kitchen is lost in a wall of greenery, pots and planters, on the countertops and table.

Sherlock glances back at him while he slips his coat onto the rack in the corner.He gives a low whistle.“Oh, John, you are so persistent today.You’ve not dogged me like this for a while.Sometimes you just refuse to cooperate, don’t you?”

John moves around in front of him so he can stare directly into his face.“Sherlock, I’m here.I’m standing right here in front of you.”

Sherlock won’t look in his eyes.He tries to spin away from him, but John blocks his path.“I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m not dead.I’m not.”His voice shrinks as his throat constricts.“I’m alive, Sherlock, I really am.” 

For a moment, Sherlock’s face pinches, but he wipes it clean, sidestepping John and barking a laugh.“This is just like the time I found your t-shirt stuffed behind the sofa cushion—what, five months ago?God, you hung around here for _days_ after that.”He rolls his head and looks at the ceiling.A pause, then he murmurs absently, “Took an extra-special mixture to get you to back off that time.”

“You are _not_ imagining this.”John fights to keep his voice level, moving close once again.“It’s real.I’m real.”He reaches out, fingertips mere centimeters from grazing Sherlock’s soft cheek, but he recoils as if burned, stepping backward until he stumbles into the wall.

Sherlock’s eyebrows gather together, jaw twitching.His eyes rove up and around, never once settling on John.“No.Stop this.I mean it.” 

John keeps moving steadily forward until Sherlock is caged into the corner.“I’m here.I’m alive.I’m not dead.”

“Stop. _Please_.Not…not funny.”Sherlock is breathing rapidly, and his eyes are wide.He pushes a palm behind him as if willing the wall to give way, to swallow him; the other he holds limply in front of his chest.His teeth sink into his bottom lip to stop its quivering.

John’s heart is racing, but he moves with deliberate stealth, patiently, relentlessly.He stops half an arm length away.“It’s true.I’m real.I’m here.” 

“No. No, no, _no_.You were…you…I saw…”He shakes his head in spasms, curls whipping back and forth.

John snatches Sherlock’s wrist before he can evade him.He pulls at the wiry forearm, forcing Sherlock to touch his chest to feel his heart beat, to wipe his cheek that is streaked with tears.Sherlock whimpers, but John refuses to let go.He tightens his hold, grips Sherlock’s wrist until his knuckles whiten under the strain. 

Finally, Sherlock's eyes connect with his for a long moment until he breaks and sags onto John.They cling to one another, Sherlock wracked with sobs he’s stuffed down for nearly a year, choking broken words, peeled back into bitter pieces by shock and fear and pain, compounded over time, distilled under the pressure of month upon month.John keeps his lips tight to stem his own emotion, refusing the hard swell in his chest that could well break his ribs. _Fuck that—you haven’t earned it._ This is not about him; it is about Sherlock.It was _always_ about Sherlock.But, God, was all of this worth it?Sherlock is alive, true, but at what cost?What has John slaughtered in his effort to save a life?

They stay in that heap on the floor until it is so dark, neither can see the man in front of him, which only makes them cling harder, afraid to move and break the spell.John’s hands, strong and sure, hold Sherlock up, hold him together, so like their last night together before the bottom fell out of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Mycroft would greatly enjoy the thought of himself as Zeus, don’t you? :)
> 
> Poecilotheria ornata is a large, venemous tarantula. I'm pretty sure just looking at one in the flesh would be enough to kill me...


	6. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's return is rather tumultuous and painful, for both him and Sherlock.

John works his left hand, shifting forward in the desk chair to lean his forearms on his thighs.He stares at the long curve of Sherlock’s back.He faces away, knees drawn up to his chest, sleeping like the dead on the sofa. 

He closes his eyes for a minute to center himself.A panicked impulse swarms him and he opens them quickly.But Sherlock is still there, breathing heavily against the black leather.John winces and exhales slowly through pursed lips.

He takes a few minutes to allow his gaze to rove around the flat.It is the only real home John has ever known, and the biggest part of him never thought he would ever see it again.It is a peculiar sensation that it is both familiar and foreignHe sees an indiscriminate smattering of mugs with their contents only partially consumed, bowls with emptied syringes, and smudged scraps of paper with random calculations and times.The bookshelves overflow, and both of the armchairs are used to store the excess.The skull on the mantle is covered by a dish cloth.

“It was gawking at me.It was annoying,” a deep voice murmurs.

John jumps a little, then huffs a small laugh at the remark.So quintessentially _Sherlock_.

Sherlock stirs, cracking his neck and scratching a spot above his elbow.John rises and works his way around to the kitchen.He unearths the kettle from where it is stuffed in the corner of the counter next to the fridge, fills it, flicks it on.He moves in the small space like he’s relearning how to walk, that same haunting void of both awkwardness and aching familiarity. 

Sherlock swings his legs around and sits back watching him push aside beakers and tubes to place two mugs on the table.John senses the mood is different now.The silence tenses the longer it lasts, tightening around him like a python.Sherlock’s gaze reminds him of a predator fixating on its prey, assessing.Clearly, the initial shock has passed, leaving something far more piercing in its wake. 

John’s back is to Sherlock as he reaches into the cupboard.“Go ahead.Just say it.”

“All right, fine, here it goes:I was wrong.”

John freezes, but he still does not look up.He forces neutrality into his tone.“About what?”

“Oh, everything, it seems.”Sherlock folds his arms behind his head.“I was wrong that we’d have an early winter this year…that sunscreen wouldn’t sell in a country that seemingly gets ten days of sunshine per year…aaaannnnd, oh yes, that Moriarty was the most treacherous villain I’d ever face.Cheers to you—you positively _trounced_ him!”He laughs lightly.

John clears his throat.“Did I?”

“Oh, yes, _absolutely_!Don’t sell yourself short, John—no offense, by the way.”Long fingers of one hand wiggle at him before falling to his lap.“I mean, you really went the extra mile, I have to say.Did your homework.Moved in here, convinced me you were my _friend_ , that you were actually trustworthy. _Really_ well done!”He pats his hands together in mock applause.

John doesn’t answer.He keeps his eyes bolted to the kettle, where small bubbles have started to form, the beginnings of a boil.

Sherlock tilts his head meditatively, taps his cheek with an index finger.“Although, I guess I really should compliment my brother.This whole set-up reeks of his tinkering, from beginning to end.You are a deceitful liar, clearly, but you’re much too stupid to have engineered the whole show.”He smiles broadly.“Feel free to take offense to that, if you like.”

John feels a sharp pain down the length of his trachea.Breathe in, breathe out.“I don’t.”

Sherlock springs to his feet and circles the coffee table, slowly making his way toward the kitchen.“Mycroft picked out his patsy wonderfully, as he always does.Gets you to police his naughty little brother to prime you for what you so desperately wanted—to skip off on a cute little mission like a dutiful soldier, sucking off the tits of Queen and Country for, what?A ribbon to pin to your coat?Charming.Just like a pathetic dog in the street snarfing for treats.”

The pot curdles and clicks off.He doesn't move.“Right.”

Sherlock reaches the side of the table perpendicular to John.He takes one more step and cranes his body over it.“I imagine that you should go live with Mycroft since you two are so chummy.”The words rip off his tongue like nails.“So sorry, but it rather looks like you picked the wrong Holmes to fuck.But not to worry—Mycroft has a terribly persistent masochistic kink, so you’re more than welcome to use him for the next pity shag before jetting off to parts unknown.If you plan to eviscerate him, too, I’m sure he’ll let you _right_ in.In more ways than one.”

John flinches, like he’s been slapped hard across his face.Molten lead fills his chest, and his breath rattles.He finally raises his head, eyes wide and undisguised.He can feel his mouth hanging loose, and before his eyes blur with unshed tears, he thinks he sees a glimmer of shock on Sherlock’s own red face, as if the words cut him as badly, even as they met the air.

“Ok.”John swallows thickly and backs away.“Enough.You win.”His legs tremble as he moves past Sherlock, and his toe catches the edge of a pile of newspapers, spilling them in a fan across the floor.He squats hastily to restock them,jumper riding up to expose a tender crescent of skin. 

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but when he turns for his coat, the pale eyes dart away.John slides gingerly into his jacket.“I’m sorry, Sherlock.I—I can’t—“ His words die and he starts to well up again, so he just utters a gruff,“I understand why you don’t want me here now.Or maybe ever.Whichever it is.I…I won’t try to…I’ll be going.” 

He halts himself at the door with a stiff hand on the frame and turns back partially.“Whatever you want to think of me, whatever offenses you think I’m guilty of, lying to you isn’t one of them. _Lying_ to you was never an option. _That’s_ why.That night, our last night here together?That’s the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone in my life.”He shrugs, and it is a heavy motion, seeming more like he’s shifted a burden from one side of his frame to the other.His face looks grey, exhausted.   He clears his throat, nods once, and turns to tread heavily down the stairs.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s face is on fire.His brain is foggy, discombobulated.Sherlock stares blankly as John disappears through the doorway.He resists the desperate impulse to race after him, grab his ankles, and beg him to come back, to curl around him, to never leave again.

But he doesn’t.He lets him go.

Sherlock flops back on the sofa, heart beating so rapidly he sees stars and clamps his eyes shut to stave off the dizziness.He’s spinning, in danger of riding the centrifugal force right over the edge. 

When Sherlock hears the front door open once more, his heart clenches, but the tread on the stairs is definitely not John.He grips his fists, and without even opening his eyes, seethes, “Fuck off, Mycroft.”

“Hello to you, too, dear brother.I see you have welcomed John home with your usual grace.” 

Sherlock leaps to his feet, red eyes murderous.“Don’t you dare.DON’T YOU _DARE_!You fucking manipulative bastard, this is obscene, even for you.You have no idea—“ 

“On the contrary, Sherlock, I have _every_ idea.It is you who remain decidedly clueless.” 

“My God, Mycroft, how c _ould_ you?Why?Why _him_?” 

“Why _not_ him?He was the perfect man for the job, and the only one who could save your life.Thus, he was the ONLY man for the job.” 

“Save me?What the hell are you talking about?Moriarty?Moriarty came after _me_.Moriarty was _mine_!”

“Wrong, Sherlock!” he roars.“Moriarty was done with you.The fatuous little game you thought you were playing was finished!You’d have been dead on a slab by the end of the week had Dr. Watson not _intervened_ , and I could not have stopped it happening.” 

“If there was work to be done, Mycroft, I should have done it.You faked John’s death with your deplorable dramatic flair; you could’ve engineered a similar exit for me.”Sherlock begins to pace fitfully.“I have studied Moriarty from every conceivable angle, every tactic, every scheme.In a couple of years, I could have taken down his entire operation alone.”

Mycroft snorts“Oh, don’t be absurd!Only a certifiable idiot would suggest that one man could eliminate a global criminal network, even the fabulous genius Sherlock Holmes.”He twirls his umbrella in an arc.“Besides, if _you_ were to pull some kind of elaborate stunt, Moriarty would have known instantly that it was a feint, and every cell in every corner of the world would have been on the alert.Your mission would have been finished before it started.But the doctor, on the other hand, no one would suspect.”He shrugs.“And no one did.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and jabs a finger at him.“You do not surprise me one iota, but John—“ he swallows, “I never thought John would betray me.I really didn’t believe he could—” 

“Is that what truly bothers you, not what he did, but what he _could_ do—function admirably without clinging onto your coat flaps like a token teddy bear, trailing behind you and singing your praises?“

Sherlock growls, flailing leg tossing the coffee table and its contents to the floor. 

“Oh, use your _brain_ , Sherlock!” Mycroft thunders.“Or has the injectable cocktail you’ve dined on of late robbed you totally of mental faculties?Why has John Watson done _anything_ of consequence in his life?A soldier, a doctor?John protects and defends.This situation is no different, especially given the very personal stake he had in the outcome.”

“What stake?What is personal about a global network of criminals?That’s not _personal_ —it’s business.He wanted to earn a little ribbon and get a pat on the head.A soldier’s glory.Be told he’s a good boy by his government superiors.”Sherlock’s upper lip curls in a disgusted sneer.

Mycroft steps toward him, his withering gaze matching perfectly his brittle tone.“Are you _really_ so dense?Have you really never known?There are numerous ways to earn medals, Sherlock, and I know you’ve taken a small hiatus from detective work, but let’s play deductions, shall we?Why do you deduce that John Watson would choose to die, to forfeit his home, his acquaintances, and his own well-being entirely, on a mission that could very well end in his torture and murder?To _spite_ you?To steal your spotlight?To go on a fanciful holiday and leave you to languish? _Be serious_!”

Sherlock flops down and stretches to his full length on the sofa, steepling his fingers.His eyes fall closed, and he inhales and exhales slowly through his nose.There is silence for several minutes, and Sherlock can almost hear the groaning of his arterial walls against the surging pressure of his blood.Abruptly, Sherlock’s mind replays what he’d glimpsed on John’s back when he’d kneeled down—red slices, a circular burn, and a jagged puckered scar that had disappeared up the fabric.“He _was_ tortured, wasn’t he?” he asks quietly.

Mycroft doesn’t answer immediately.When he does, it is nearly a mumble.“The man in whose employ John found himself was not exactly trusting.His loyalty tests were quite… involved.”Mycroft stares at the tip of his shoe, refusing to look Sherlock in the eye.

Sherlock turns away, stuffing down the swell of bile that rises in his throat.

Mycroft’s chin rises slightly.“Dr. Watson knew the risks.He chose to take them anyway.He found them to be a superior option to the alternative.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, mouth ajar.Mycroft’s relentless gaze is the only clarification he needs.“You son of a bitch.”

Mycroft saunters to the door.“It’s your choice, Sherlock.He’s back.Now you have to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”He sighs.“Do what you will.”


	7. Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reconnects with his old life, and finally, with Sherlock.

“Jesus Christ!”

John glances up from the amber pint that foams in front of him.Greg Lestrade is frozen in the pub’s doorway, staring. _Like he’s just seen a ghost_.John slides off his seat slowly and tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans.“Hi, Greg.Look, I know you must be angry, and I totally und—“

He is silenced when Lestrade rushes over and picks him up off the ground in a crushing bear hug.“John Watson!Shit, I thought that message was some kind of crank!”

John signals the waitress and gives Greg a sheepish smile.“I know I have a _lot_ of explaining to do.Please accept my apologies for—”

Greg holds up his hand.“Forget it.You’re a good man, John; I know that if these were the lengths you had to go to, then you had a damn good reason why.” 

“Thank you.Thank you, really.”John puffs his cheeks out and exhales slowly.He runs his finger up and down his glass, drawing lines in the condensation.“And yeah, Greg.I definitely did.” 

Greg studies John’s face. “Have you seen him?” 

“Yes.”John swallows hard, eyes drop to the table. 

“I’m sure that was fun.” Greg’s grins wryly and takes a gulp of his ale. 

John’s face pales.“He…he's furious.Wants nothing to do with me.Feels completely betrayed.”John wipes his nose.“I don’t really blame him, I suppose.“ 

Greg huffs.“Yeah, right.Look, I’ve known Sherlock Holmes for way too many years, at his best and at his absolute worst.But I’ve never seen _anything_ like that man after you…well, you know…and I can tell you without a doubt that what he is feeling is not anger and betrayal.”Greg’s gaze remains level as he drains his mug.He slaps John on the back.“I think we need another.”

* * *

 

 

The clouds move relentlessly overhead, spurred by a stiff wind.John rests his head on the wooden bar behind him, then stretches his legs out in front of the bench and crosses his ankles for a better view of the sky.It reminds John of time-lapse photography.A quixotic rush of sunlight and shadow, the spectacular evanescence of London in late fall.

He lets his eyes slip closed for a moment, and he inhales deeply through his nose.The chill air carries a warm odor of dark roast coffee mixed with a whiff of petrol and the indefinable scent that hearkens of the season ahead.The tree that overhangs this spot has already seen most of its leaves wither to brown and disappear.With luck, in a few weeks, its branches will twinkle in a layer of fluffy white snow.

These little things, these ever-evolving details, are what John loves about this city, ones that he’d spent many a bleak, dark night believing he’d never experience again.

Abruptly his phone buzzes in his coat pocket.Must be Greg checking in; it has been a week since they’d spoken.He digs it out and stares at the screen.

_Come at once, if convenient; if inconvenient, come all the same.SH_

 

 

John eases open the door to see a tray with tea on the side table, Sherlock cross-legged in front of his chair, eyes closed.He’s cleaned up, shaved and refreshed his clothes.He looks…good.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at him; John sees several things flicker over his features, though he’s sure the detective thinks his face impassive.He wonders if the scrutiny is still to determine if John is real or merely a phantom. John walks slowly forward, Sherlock’s eyes on him continuously.John glances around.Some stacks of books have been relocated.The mugs and syringes are gone.“I like what you’ve done with the place, by the way; hoarding is a lost art.”

Sherlock’s gaze has not left his face.“I had a lot of space to fill,” is his flat reply.

John’s head whips around, lips parted, pain bubbling up in his eyes.He looks away.“Yeah, I guess you did.”

Sherlock declines his head and pinches his eyes shut.He sighs.

John slips out of his coat and sinks slowly to the carpet, his knees up, arms wrapped around them.They silently regard one another. 

“Your hair is longer,” John mutters vaguely.

“Yours is grayer,” Sherlock returns. 

John’s lips quirk.Sherlock can’t help himself; his do the same.

It’s enough to relax some of the thick tension.John’s face sobers, and he squeezes his knees tighter.“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“That will take a while.”

An eyebrow raises infinitesimally, and the voice drops to a whisper.“We have the rest of our lives.”

John denies himself the flash of hope that the _we_ sparked.He compresses his mouth into a thin line, and after a moment, exhales heavily.“All right then.”

* * *

 

Sherlock studies him, relearning his face millimeter by millimeter, sitting on his hands to keep from reaching out to trace with his fingertips the deepened furrows around the eyes and mouth.

John pulls off his shoes and unwinds himself to reach for the tea.His hand tremors, and he grips it tight in a fist, shakes it out, then folds himself back up, cup balanced on his kneecaps.

“When I left here, that morning, it was dark, not yet dawn, and cold…so cold…”He stares down into his cup.“I thought I was supposed to meet a contact at the tube station, but I barely made it round the block before I was attacked from behind, drugged.I woke up in a cargo plane half way to Munich.I have no idea how long I was out.” 

“Forty-eight hours, I’d estimate, based on how long you were kept in hospital.”

John jerks his head up at the rasp in Sherlock’s voice, eyes flooded and dark. His mouth is slightly ajar.“Oh.”

Sherlock avoids his gaze.“What was your assignment?”

John swallows hard and tries to refocus.“I was to be placed with Cyril Bajzath as his personal physician; he was the warlord in charge of Moriarty’s Czech connection.It was his most active cell. My cover was as a former army doctor, dishonorably discharged with a string of small-time offenses; I guess the basic idea was to make me so slimy, desperate, and pissed off that I’d do anything I was asked and keep my mouth shut about anything I saw.”

“I’m sure you were successful.It seems you are excessively talented at deception.”An airy knife.

John’s shoulders tense.After a beat, he responds quietly,“Yes, well, it still took a hell of a lot of convincing.”

Sherlock’s stomach flips, mind churning up the marks he’d briefly seen on John’s back.He drops his eyes to the floor, jerking his head back and forth, as if trying to wipe away the image. _No_.He keeps his breathing tight, unwilling to relinquish control over the ball of his hard, comfortable anger.As long as it sits between him and John, he can keep himself apart, keep himself from being sucked under by the riptide of emotion that had drown him before.Here, he is safe. 

Sherlock clears his throat, waving his arm in a vague motion.“Proceed.”

John tells him about the Gothic estate, about treating Bajzath’s genital warts, about the meetings with Mycroft’s go-betweens which masqueraded as visits to a bar or to a certain pharmacy to purchase Bajzath’s insulin or to a sweets shop to fetch taffy for his toddler son.

Then, there was the move from Prague to Salzburg in the middle of the night when four of Bajzath’s men ended up with bullets in their heads on the tarmac minutes after their plane had landed, and their shipments disappeared along with two of Moriarty’s arms dealers.

“You?”

John more shrugs than nods.“Yeah.Really shook the foundations there.A total shit show.Bajzath started to panic, kicked his paranoia into high gear.We fled, and once the operation relocated to Austria, that’s when…”John swallowed and placed his tea cup back on the table, clenching his hand fitfully.He stared at his fist, brows furrowed, overtaken by images only he could see.

Sherlock waits, then slowly extends a cautious finger which barely grazes John’s big toe.“John?”

“It was like a purge.No one was safe.He sent his boy away to South America, and then the fun really began.”John’s eyebrows slowly folded in on themselves, his mouth pulled down in a thin white line.“I had to stand by while he dragged in drivers, couriers, secretaries—some who didn’t even know what business the son of a bitch was in.If they were lucky, he just shot them in the head.”

“And if they were unlucky?”

John barks a humorless chuckle that turns Sherlock's blood cold.  John focuses somewhere around the detective’s sternum, but really, his eyes are glazed and as he talks, his voice grows remote, seeing it all in a hazy trance.“They begged and sobbed…lost toes, teeth, eyes, tongues…and screamed and screamed and screamed.The blood…there was _so much_ _blood_.  Even in the war, I—I never saw anything like it.”John pulls absently at the cuff of his shirt.Sherlock follows the motion with his eyes, knows from the strings pulled loose and the red flat spots on his fingertips just how often John has found himself in this same state of agitation, feels a hot prickling behind his eyes.“And I had to watch.All of it.It was my fault.They were all innocent.They did nothing—knew _nothing_ —and they all died, one after another.”

“They worked for a warlord.They were far from innocent.”

“Not everyone knew what he was.He painted himself like an international business man.Doesn’t mean they knew what that business truly was.”

Sherlock wants to ask the question, but he can’t open his mouth.He no longer trusts his voice.Before he can collect himself, John sighs, “Finally, he got around to me.”John no longer sounds like himself.He’s gone very still, and his tone has flattened, like he’s reading from a boring textbook.“He was pretty worked up by then, wanted to make a lasting impression on the rest of his inner circle.Electrodes and battery cables, half-smoked cigars, blowtorch—said that if I was burning him, he’d return the favor.Got a right chuckle out of that one, too.”He swallows.“I spent three days chained to a pipe before he gave up.And do you know the only reason he did—why he decided to stop?He needed my help.The fucker couldn’t keep his sugars under control.”

Sherlock wants to cover his ears and run from the room.He cannot bear to hear a syllable more.He wants to find Mycroft and beat him half to death with his fucking umbrella.He wants to find Bajzath, slice him open, and choke him with his own intestines.

John looks up at him suddenly, and his eyes are dark and round, as if he’s frozen in the path of an oncoming car.“I really—I never thought of anything but you, Sherlock.This—all of this—I _had_ to do this.And it was terrible, and hard, so _unbelievably_ _hard_ , but I had to— had to save you.That’s all that mattered.I couldn’t sit back and let you die and know that I could have— _should_ have done something—ANYTHING—to save you.Because you—you’re—“He’s rambling, shivering in a tightening ball, lips white, sweat beading at his hairline.“You’re the only reason I could think of to live, and then—then, you were the only reason I would let myself die…” 

Sherlock’s insides lurch violently.Revulsion.Shame.He is trapped by the deep indigo of John’s wrecked and desperate eyes.Sherlock reaches further forward, wrapping his long fingers around John’s ankle, stroking slow lines over his Achilles tendon, his calf.Only when John’s intense gaze blurs and releases him does Sherlock become conscious of what he’s doing.He pulls back slowly, uncertain.

John scrubs a hand up and down his face, then presses the heels of both hands into his eye sockets.His arms slide down, forearms crossing on top of his knees, and his forehead sinks down upon them.Sherlock can hear him sniff and swallow, sees his shoulders start to shift under his thick jumper, sees three drops of clear liquid drip onto the carpet.He makes a high-pitched noise, an unearthly whine like a tree branch slowly cleaving from the trunk before it crashes to the ground.

It is too much.Whatever moral outrage Sherlock had coated himself in like a suit of armor melts off him under the heat of John— _his_ John—agonized and laid bare.Sherlock curses the bitter aftertaste of his own accusations that John had been carried away by his silly patriotism, that he’d skipped off to another adventure, trading up for a better, more glorious life, like some ridiculous operative in those Bond movies he loves so much.But there’d been no glory in this.It had been an apocalypse—destruction and survival, not adventure.Sherlock’s survival.And it had nearly broken them both.

Sherlock slides his body forward, pulls on John’s shins to collapse the tent of his limbs.They flop down without resistance, and Sherlock slides into the V of his legs, pushing forward until his pelvis meets John’s, and he links his ankles together behind John’s back.When John’s arms drop, they land around Sherlock’s waist; the shielded, crumpled features of his face fall into the crux of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock grips him fiercely, strong arms holding him upright.“It’s all right, John, it's all right.I’ve got you now.Please. _Let go_.”

John convulses, sobs that Sherlock feels far below the moist heat of John’s breath and tears on his neck.He feels it wrap around his own heart and strip it, crush its calcified layers until it throbs unfettered against the cage of his ribs. 

_It remembers_ , Sherlock thinks. 

He had so long relied on his mind palace as the arbiter of relevance, carefully maintained and organized to pull up what he needed when he needed it.That system, though, is worthless when his brain goes offline, when clarity and rationality are impossible.But Sherlock doesn’t require a palace to find what he needs right now.He had tried so hard to stay remote, to hover above it, but his heart responds unbidden to John Watson.It is imprinted with John’s voice and John’s smile and John’s smell; the thousand expressions of John’s face and the million gestures of John’s love.His heart _knows_ John, and it guides him now, back to what it has craved ceaselessly since John’s death had carved it to tiny, useless bits.

It had been the two of them against the rest of the world, and Sherlock had not gotten a grip on the mathematics of that number reduced by half; now, his equation feels balanced again.John needles tentative fingers into Sherlock’s hair at the nape of his neck, brushes it over his ear, red and swollen eyes now tender and pleading.“I could never lie to you, Sherlock.And I couldn’t lie to myself about it anymore.Not when I’ve loved you since the beginning, the minute you took that stupid phone from my hand…And I was so afraid that…”He shakes his head and pauses, squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck.He steadies his voice and it drops nearly an octave.“I just couldn’t walk away from you without you knowing how you’d become…everything.My whole life.You _had to know_.”

Sherlock feels like he’s melting, his skin pulled back and muscles flayed so that all he’d tried so desperately to keep hidden is exposed to the sapphire of John Watson’s eyes.

They’d fought together, even while apart, and the world had taken plenty from them.Mycroft, Moriarty, Bajzath—all had taken enough.Too much.This time was theirs alone.

Sherlock puts his feet together and stands slowly.He holds his hand out to John.

John tilts his head, confused, but he takes the offered hand and allows Sherlock to lead him down the hall.It is dark and cool in the bedroom.Sherlock leads John to the edge of the bed and flicks on the lamp on his bedside table.

John blinks in surprise.“It…it looks exactly the same in here.” 

“I couldn’t sleep in here for months,” Sherlock murmurs.“I didn’t want the sheets to stop smelling like you.And when they finally did, I didn’t want to sleep at all.”

John leans up and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and another to the spot on his neck just behind his ear.Sherlock’s arms fall naturally around his waist.He rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock smooths his cheek over John’s soft hair, breathing deeply his comforting scent. _Home_.

They stay like that for a long while.John traces circles with his thumbs on Sherlock’s lower back.Sherlock ghosts kisses along John’s hairline and temple and jawline.

“Do you have…any… _possible_ …idea…how much I have missed you?” Sherlock whispers into his ear.

John huffs, lightly squeezes his hips.“Yeah, Sherlock,” his voice strangled.“I do.I really, really do.”

“Will you show me, John?”

John stiffens.

“I need to see you.All of you.I need to know.”

John looks up at him, his hesitance plain, eyes searching Sherlock’s face.He swallows visibly.“You sure?”

He cups John’s right cheek with his palm, brushes the cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.“Trust me.Please.”

John bites his bottom lip.He nods once and moves his left hand to the hem of his jumper.

Sherlock stops him.“No, let me.”

John’s eyes turn a darker shade of blue.He drops his hand and squares his shoulders.

Sherlock peels off John’s layers, piece by piece, button by button.His clothing hits the floor each time with a soft hiss. Sherlock kisses the starburst on John’s shoulder with solemn gratitude, the one that brought John to him nearly three years before.He examines each puckered burn, each red slash; he worships the skin of John’s back, the raw stripes on his arms and legs with the proper attention, exorcising all of his desperate internal pleas from the last nine months, made to a god he doesn’t even believe in, for this man to come back to him, the confounding and wonderful puzzle of John Watson, who shakes hands with danger with a steady grip, who giggles when fleeing a murderer, who loves fiercely despite all odds. 

But the information his skin offers, its map of horror and pain, is not meant only for him.It is too big a burden to carry alone, even for the bravest, the kindest, and the wisest man Sherlock Holmes has ever known.They will bear its weight in tandem until it lessens and, when they are ready, they can release it for good.

Together, they will know when to let go.

But right now, they hold on—

   When Sherlock finishes his deliberate circuit back at John’s face, cradles it in both hands, removing the stubborn lines of silent tears with brushes of his mouth;

   When he sheds his own barrier of clothing so they are both bare and vulnerable before the other, and John runs careful fingers over the track marks on the underside of Sherlock’s arm;

   When Sherlock tugs John onto the mattress and under the warmth of the fluffy down duvet;

   When Sherlock entwines his limbs with John’s, caging him in, melding him securely with a palm to his chest and another on his abdomen;

   When saying, “I love you,” aloud seems superfluous, but they do it anyway;

   When all the demons are hushed and the only noise that remains is the thud of a shared heartbeat—

They hold on with an unrelenting devotion, just as they always have.

 

* * *

 

It is late before Sherlock stirs.Reflexively, he squeezes his arms tighter, feeling the reassuring warmth of soft skin beneath him.His mind accelerates through the last day, the last month,the last six months. _Not important._ He inhales deeply several times, nose pressed into the bend of John’s neck. _This_.He’s been given a chance at a new life, and this is how he wants to start every day of it.Before, he’d existed mostly in his head; perhaps now he could learn how to exist in the moment, if every moment fills his senses with John Watson.

John is still quietly snoring, his cheek smashed against Sherlock’s left bicep.Reluctantly, Sherlock disengages himself with slow movements to leave him undisturbed and tiptoes to the loo.As he washes his hands, he is startled to hear his stomach growl.Should he even bother rooting through the fridge?Its contents were dubious at best, but John will likely be needing something when he awakens, so he pads out to the kitchen to assess the damage.

Sigh.

The kitchen table has been meticulously cleared of its overflowing plants and glassware.In their place is a large tray with croissants, butter and jam, juice, and a pot of coffee.

“Good morning, Mycroft.”

A voice rises from the sitting room.“Good _afternoon_ , brother mine, but then, it’s never too late for a decent breakfast.”

“That does sound like a philosophy you’d adopt.”

“Is Doctor Watson still in the midst of his slumber, or will he be joining us?”

A gravelly voice comes from the hallway.“How could I refuse?”

They quickly succumb to the tray’s temptations.Sherlock barely suppresses a groan at the steaming perfection of the Sumatran blend.John shoves half of his croissant in his mouth, leaving a dollop of butter on the end of his nose.Sherlock removes it with his index finger, then licks it clean and kisses his cheek.  John licks clean the finger and kisses the corner of Sherlock's lips.

Mycroft flips through the newspaper.

Finally, Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Ok, out with it.”

Mycroft folds the paper neatly and saunters into the kitchen.He looks back and forth between them.“Bajzath’s gone underground.”Both of them drop their cups to the table with a clunk.“Prior to John’s extraction, he’d successfully been led to believe that James Moriarty used him and conspired against him, so he’s pursuing the latter for revenge, a takeover of the crime network that Bajzath thinks is his right to control.”

Sherlock grunts.“The best way to kill a nest of snakes is to get it to devour itself.”

John swallows.“Last known location?”

“Peru.”

John’s shoulders droop minutely with relief.Sherlock looks at Mycroft carefully.“Prognosis?”

“This will keep them both occupied for the foreseeable future.”

John looks across the table and catches Sherlock’s eyes.“If he returns, we’ll be ready.”

Mycroft steps toward the door, and Sherlock follows.“Mycroft…”

They share a few seconds of their own particular brand of wordless communication until Mycroft clears his throat delicately.“Well, Sherlock, I’ll tell our parents that you are in reasonable health.”

“Oh, why lie to them?”

“Well, it is less a lie than simply telling them you’re reasonable.”

The mild, unexpected humor makes Sherlock’s mouth quirk with a hint of a genuine smile.Mycroft cannot stop himself from doing the same.


	8. Epilogue:  Reinvested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three months later, life goes on...

“Wait.Back up.What are you saying?”Lestrade crosses his arms skeptically.

The late Beverly Tunis lies between them in her bed, checkered nightshirt smoothed flat and fingers laced together over her stomach. 

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rises.“I’ve said a great many things, Inspector.You’ll need to be more specific.”He scans the many framed photos on the table next to Lestrade.

“You don’t think she was murdered?”

John doesn’t look up from his notebook."That wasn’t one of them, actually.”

“At least someone is paying attention,” Sherlock glances over at John, smile curving his mouth up at the corner.

“Always.”John winks.

“She had a heart attack,” Anderson interjects.

“Oh, Anderson,” Sherlock groans, “go back to sleep, will you, please?”

Greg turns partially to hide his chuckle.

John catches Sherlock’s eye again, then directs a withering gaze at the tech."Not likely.”He steps forward and uses a gloved finger to raise the corpse’s eyelid.“Subtle petechial hemorrhages around the iris.”His pinky finger points at her nose.“Indications of foam around the nostril.”He looks at Lestrade.“If I had to guess, I’d say this woman drowned.”

Sherlock’s face lights.He swoops down and flips through the contents of the woman’s nightstand. 

Anderson rolls his eyes.“That’s ridiculous!There’s not even a glass of water in here!”

Lestrade stares at John and knits his eyebrows together.“That right?”

“Of course he’s right.John’s always right,” Sherlock murmurs as he tosses items left and right.

John grins, cheeks dusted in pink.

“This woman was most certainly murdered.”Sherlock chucks a Chapstick and a tube of Cremo unscented face lotion on the bed.“And now it is obvious that she knew her assailant, she was taken by surprise, and she had no idea that she was in danger.”

“Oh, please!” Anderson squawks.

Greg’s eyes narrow.“You making this up?”

“This woman does not live within fifty miles of the ocean, but she has supplies used by frequent swimmers.There is an athletic club and natatorium three blocks from here.Based upon the blisters on her fingers, she’s recently joined, and these supplies indicate she’s taken to the pool, likely an exercise class which would be better on her joints, and given the inflamed nature of her left knee—“

“She has moderate osteoarthritis,” John supplies.

“That club was been investigated last year for rampant drug activity, and those pictures on the other side of your posterior indicate that her water aerobics instructor is a regular user.I’d wager that Ms. Tunis’s camera recorded more than just her slow path to stellar fitness.”

“Brilliant,” John breathes.

Sherlock moves toward the door.The detective raises his chin to Lestrade.“Find the instructor.”His hand brushes John’s lower back.“We’ll meet you at the club.”

Lestrade puts frustrated hands on his hips.“Wait!Where are _you_ going?”

“Come on, John!”

Sherlock breezes out, leaving John to smile awkwardly in retreat, backing out of the room as if connected to Sherlock with a tether.“Um, thanks, Greg.See you.There.Later.”He giggles once more before disappearing through the door.

Anderson stands and rips his gloves off.“Oh, this is outrageous!”He turns huffily to Lestrade and throws up his naked hands.“Aren’t you even going to try to stop them?”

Lestrade sighs and shakes his head.“Anderson, please.When are you going to realize?Nothing stops those two.Absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read to the end. If you've enjoyed the story, please check out the rest of the series, including the multi-chapter finale (for now) “No Other World But This One,” in which John’s time abroad has far-reaching and dangerous consequences.  
> Also, I would be honored if you would share it with others; your comments and kudos are profoundly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Commentary is life to any writer--I am ravenous to know your thoughts!


End file.
